Fallout 3: Aqua Vitae
by commandocucumber
Summary: Set after Modus Operandi. An act of terrorism sends the Lone Wanderer into a brutal quest for retribution, and Sarah Lyons to the one place on earth where even the Lone Wanderer fears to tread.
1. Chapter 1

**Alright, so a quick foreword, **

**Yes this is **_**A **_**sequel, but it isn't **_**THE**_** sequel. It's tangential. Something I have to get off my back before we can get to the really big stuff because it'll nag at me otherwise. (that, and after the next big one if it plays out right, the entire landscape of the wasteland will have changed, and this is a story which works best before that happens.) **

**So bear with me, and I'll try to run through this one quickly.**

**Oh, and a quick shout-out to ****Natasel who gave me the idea for the opening discussion.**

* * *

Aqua Vitae 1

Everything about scribe Bigsley, from his clothes, to his facial features, to his attitude, sloped hopelessly downwards. Even his career opportunities had taken a plunge over the last five years. His eyebrows appeared permanently set into the expression of a young child having just been denied a lollipop His eyes were sunken inwards, and far too close together. Combined with the effect of his hooked nose, he was left a face which made his subordinates' eyes water.

He stepped forward and rapped a long piece of wood against a blackboard. It was occupied with a single drawing: two dots, one labeled 'A' the other labeled 'B'. An arrow had been drawn between them.

"Alright," he said in a depressed voice, "Here's our job: get Aqua Pura from point A to point B without having our caravans attacked. Ideas people?"

He stared across the dozen or so faces which had been assembled in a small side-room in project purity. The team was made up of scientists, scribes, and a few interested parties from Megaton and Rivet City. A man with auburn hair and a goatee raised his hand.

"Mister Dargon?" Bigsley asked.

"We could pump it through the pre-war pipes," the scientist suggested, "we'd have to collect a lot of abraxo and pump it through the system to clear it out, but those pipes reach as far as Canterbury Commons and Evergreen Mills. You can get water out of the other end, which means there's still some pressure in the pipes, so clearly they're still intact."

"We'd have to find blueprints for the pipes…" one scribe mused, "I can send someone over to the Arlington library and tell Yearling to start looking for it."

"We also don't know just how strong those pipes are," One scribe said, "sure they hold up now, but there's no strain on the system. What happens after they're repressurized?

Rivet City security officer Lepelletier cleared her throat, "What about the subway tunnels?"

"Not an option," A female scribe by the name of Vallincourt said, "They don't reach across the wasteland. And there's too many blocked passages. We'd spend more time digging than transporting."

"It also requires time to secure the tunnels and fortify them." Paladin Tristan added, "Don't forget that the supermutants and raiders use them too."

"All the more reason to take them over." Lepelletier said.

"If you're willing to volunteer people to man all the stations and exits, then sure, go for it." Tristan told her. The security officer subsided.

"Besides," Alex Dargon said, "That still requires that Brahmin carry the stuff."

"What about the Talon company?" one scribe asked, "Maybe we can subcontract the water transportation to them. They're equipped enough to deal with the raiders and mutants."

"Yeah, but they aren't exactly an ethically sound organization." Dargon said.

"So what?" Lepelletier asked, "If they'll carry the water, then they'll carry the water. Maybe it's a way to bring them back into the fold."

"The trouble with paying mercs," Bigsley commented, "Is that the expenses inevitably increase with the amount of risk involved."

"Maybe we could charge for the water." A scribe said, to general dissent, "I know not every town has a lot of caps, but they must all have something to offer."

Another scientist named Daniel Agincourt cleared his throat, "I still don't understand why we have to bring it to the other settlements at all. I mean what does a place like Bigtown have to offer in return?"

"You and I know better than anyone that it's not about that at all. It never was!" Alex Dargon snapped, to Bigsley's surprise. Dargon was normally an extremely calm person, "That was never James' vision for it."

"James wasn't the only one working on the project! Why does he get all the credit?"

"Doctor Li wouldn't have approved either!" Dargon defended, "and neither do I. You're outvoted three to one. The project was created for all men, women, and children no matter who they were or where they came from or what they have to give in return."

"We're living in a post-apocalyptic hell," Agincourt persisted, "Now's not the time for socialist bullshit!"

"Tell that to James' son." Alex Dargon muttered. Several of the listeners laughed.

"Yes, I thought we'd get around to him eventually." Bigsley told to the room at large, "I want you all to know that it is the job of the Warrior sect of the Brotherhood of Steel to handle the Lone Wanderer. Anything he may say, do, or believe about Project Purity should have _no bearing whatsoever_ on the outcome of this meeting. If he has any problems with it, you direct him straight to Star-Paladin Lyons. I want that understood."

"I'm glad someone else sees this the way I do," Agincourt said happily.

The wall imploded with a deafening sound, sending fragments of plaster scattering throughout the room, and tossing both the chairs and their occupants against the far wall. Bigsley saw the world spin. His head hit the far wall, and blackness closed in.

* * *

Bigsley opened his eyes and blinked, trying to clear them. A thick, heavy layer of dust hung in the air, making him cough and choke. There were no real shapes to speak of, just different blobs of colour. Splashes of light and dark. He tried to rise, but fell over. A dark shape shimmered over his head, burbling noises at him as if her were underwater. He tried to understand, but couldn't make the sounds out over the ringing in his own ears.

Something gripped his shoulders, dragging him through the splotchy world. It brightened suddenly, and the sounds grew slightly clearer. He was beginning to recover. People were shouting, but he couldn't hear what. The giant blue of the sky was broken by a large billowing cloud of smoke. His rescuer set him down on hard pavement and disappeared. After a short time, another shape hovered over him. Like an image coming slowly into focus, the blur condensed into a brotherhood medic. She was dressed in full brotherhood power armour.

"Are you alright?" the woman asked.

Bigsley looked around. They had dragged him out to the bridge and laid him down amongst other wounded. Many of them were screaming in agony. Many more weren't making any noise at all. Bigsley sat up and stared at the rising cloud of black smoke billowing from the center of the Jefferson memorial. The pipes and intricate network of walkways surrounding the space between the memorial and the pool had completely disappeared. The pool itself was covered in detritus and floating debris.

The waters of life had ceased to flow.


	2. Chapter 2

The message echoed along the airways, reaching across the wasteland as far north as the Republic of Dave, and as far east as Girdershade. Three-Dog, for the second time in one week, spoke without his usual bluster. His voice lacked the style and panache which had made it so unique. It was instead heavy with dread and fear: "_My friends, my listeners, my disciples, I have some bad news for those of us still fighting the good fight. Yesterday morning, project purity exploded. That's right my friends, the waters of life are flowing no more. Betta hitch up your belts, save what little you have, and hold on for dear life…"_

Elder Owyn Lyons sat in the briefing room at the Citadel. Gathered at the tables around him were a collection of two dozen scientists, soldiers, and scribes. His daughter Sarah was on a chair in the corner of the room, watching the door through the corner of her eye, waiting for something. She had neglected to wear her Lyons' Pride power armour, instead opting for the lighter recon armour. She had been demoted not six days beforehand for leading a reckless attempt to rescue the Lone Wanderer from a band of raiders. The attempt had been successful, with few casualties. She had not said a word to her own father since. It had been necessary though; if Elder Owyn Lyons' own daughter would not follow his orders, then who would?

He leaned forward and addressed the emergency meeting, "This is what we know: yesterday at approximately eleven hundred hours, project purity exploded. We don't know why yet, or how extensive the damage is, but I can assure you that Scribe Rothchild is over there doing all he can to figure it out. So far we have twenty three casualties, fourteen wounded, the rest killed." His eyes traveled across the group, meeting the scared faces of each member. "We intend to solve this problem. The purifier _will _be fixed. In the meantime, however," he continued, "we have plenty of fresh water stores built up, and will be rationing these out to the settlements as much as we can afford." He glanced at Sarah. She was still staring at the door, waiting.

"How long, approximately, would these supplies last?" A Brotherhood knight named Artemis asked.

"Four months," Scribe Peabody told him, "According to my calculations, anyway. Eight, if we cut each settlement to half rations. That'll be about three barrels per every ten people, per month. If the purifier can be fixed at all, we can probably fix it within that time frame."

Noone said the question, but they could hear it all the same, _And if we can't?_

The door slammed open and a figure stood framed in the doorway. He had chin-length blonde hair done up in the blast back style, fixed in position by a red bandana. His chin was covered in dark five o'clock shadow.

Sarah Lyons nodded in satisfaction. The rest of the group immediately sat up straight and silent, no one willing to meet his eyes. The man stalked forward slowly, hefting a strange looking rifle. The barrel was constructed out of part of a steam gauge assembly, the stock, a crutch. Altogether it was a fearsome weapon. Every eye which wasn't resting on fingernails, paper, or the floor, had rested upon it.

"Does someone want to tell me what happened to my father's purifier?" the Wanderer asked, addressing the entire room, "Who dropped the ball?"

"It isn't your father's." a defiant voice replied. All eyes turned to Scribe Bigsley, whose head was heavily bandaged. The scribe glared at the Lone Wanderer, resolutely refusing to be cowed into silence, "He helped build it, but he was one of many. If it belongs to anyone now, it belongs to the Brotherhood of Steel."

The Wanderer raised his eyebrows.

Bigsley continued, voicing the feelings of quite a few members of the council, "We are the ones sacrificing blood and steel to keep it safe while you go gallivanting off to god knows where. What gives you the right to march in here waving some-" he gestured angrily at the MacGyvered steam gauge assembly, "-Some homemade monstrosity, and telling us off. You've got as much right to be in this room as any other wastelander!" he finished, crossing his arms.

The Wanderer raised the homemade monstrosity and fired it at Bigsley's left ear. The scribe ducked, narrowly avoiding the steel bolt which had embedded itself four inches into the wall, a web of cracks expanding outwards from the point of impact.

"It shoots railroad spikes." The Wanderer told him helpfully.

"I will not have weapons fired in this council room!" Lyons declared, rising to his feet, "If you do not put that away, I will have you forcibly removed from this Citadel!"

The Wanderer turned a cold look upon the Elder. The two of them had shared a less than friendly relationship since the Brotherhood had failed to contribute to his rescue.

"You can't afford to lose _that_ many soldiers." The Wanderer replied icily, "Sit. Down."

They stared at each other, each trying to call the other's bluff.

"Jason," Sarah said gently. It was the first word she had spoken since the meeting had begun. It prompted distinct and, to Owyn Lyons at least, alarming changes in the Wanderer's features. His cold, emotionless face immediately softened. Aware that fact by itself had lost him the battle of wills; the Wanderer slung the weapon over his shoulder and turned to Sarah. The woman nodded discreetly at the door, and followed him out.

Inside the briefing room, twenty-four people allowed themselves to breathe again.

* * *

Sarah led him down the hall to the Lyons' Den; her squad's barracks.

"Get in." she ordered curtly. He obeyed and stood awkwardly in the center of the room.

Sarah walked up to him and smiled, "I think Bigsley pissed himself."

"Good." The Wanderer muttered with much satisfaction.

Sarah sighed. She put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him gently. The moment their lips met, she could almost feel his anger and helpless frustration being siphoned off. She smiled slightly; she hadn't realized how disarming a kiss could be.

She pulled away and embraced him, "Bigsley did have a point, you know."

"I know." Jason admitted. He started to pace back and forth across the length of the barracks, "But he still dropped the ball. The Purifier was his responsibility."

"Jason, we had our hands full _before_ it started working." Sarah told him, taking a seat on her own bed, "Cut us some slack?"

"How much slack, exactly?" he asked, "My father's dream is a giant crater."

"No it isn't." she snapped, "Most of it is still there. I saw."

"Someone blew it up."

Sarah sighed, watching the man's face, "_If _it was sabotage, then I don't think it was one of us, Jason. Like it or not, we are all committed. How do you know it wasn't your father's work?"

He fixed her with a deadly glare. The same look usually reserved for his enemies, but she knew him better and stood her ground. She could also see, hidden behind the fierce look, fear, and a small amount of uncertainty. She pressed the point, "Your father spent probably close to forty years working on the purifier. Most of that time was wasted by incomplete results, experimental data no one could replicate, and failed attempts. And after all that, it was the enclave who eventually got it working-"

"You watch it!" the Wanderer warned her.

"Jason…" Sarah shook her head gently, "Your father gets the credit, and he deserves every bit of it. He did more for this wasteland than my own father did, and I wish more people would live by the example he set, but we both know the enclave were the ones who installed the G.E.C.K.. Who's to say they didn't put some kind of a failsafe in? Planted something in case they lost it…"

"It's been a year since we took the purifier…"

"And only nine months since you destroyed the landcrawler…" she shrugged, "Maybe the enclave finally decided it wasn't worth trying to save it…"

"But it was guarded!" Jason insisted, "They couldn't just send in someone to blow it up…"

"Why not?" Sarah asked, "We have both you and Gallows, and you two can sneak past damned near anything. Who's to say they don't have some spec. ops. soldiers of their own? If it was the Enclave at all, I mean. We don't know enough to make that call yet."

Jason stared at her, his anger fading, replaced with helplessness, "I need a target, Sarah. I can't just let this go."

"We don't know who did it." She told him, "Or what did it. Rothchild is over there right now trying to get some clues. If you want to be of use, go help him."

* * *

Scribe Rothchild stood in the ruins of Project Purity. He watched as knights, scribes, and volunteers from rivet city sorted out the wreckage. Piles were already forming; broken masonry, large chunks of metal, and other assorted parts of what used to be the purifier. A net was being dragged through the tidal basin, scooping up the wreckage which was floating on the surface.

Alex Dargon tapped him on the shoulder, "We found the source of the explosion."

Rothchild followed the scientist down into the bowels of the purifier. It had been gutted, with much of the basement, as well as the control room exposed to the outdoors. The control room itself was now devoid of windows; the air compression had caused all the glass in it to shatter. The electronics within had been rendered useless. The statue itself had sunk down into the basement and was lying within the run-off pools, in several pieces.

"The explosion occurred in the stage two purifier." Alex told him. The scientist had a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his left arm where a piece of shrapnel had caught him.

"Stage two?" Rothchild asked.

"The stage two purifier takes the toxic gasses and chemicals out of the water," the scientest explained, "which are usually left over by the removal of dirt and detritus from the stage one purifier. The simple fact is that most of the radiation in the water is caused by tiny particles of radioactive dust floating in it. The water itself is pure, but it's a heterogeneous mixture. The fact is that you can drink any water in the wasteland, but you have to let it sit for three days and then carefully scoop very thin layers on the top. That's how people in the wasteland have survived thus far. The water in the Potomac moves too much to allow for the particles to settle, which is why we need the purifier in the first place. It does more than remove the radioactive elements, though. It also removes the oxidized particles from all the sunken boats in the area. Then there're traces of methane and other noxious chemicals derived from the dumped tires, human refuse and other undesirables. Those get through the stage one purification process, and are weeded out in stage two. The machinery collects the gasses in a giant reservoir, which is right here..."

He stopped beside an enormous metal tank which had been blow wide open, the jagged bent metal edges a testament to the power of the explosion within it. The scribes around it had affixed makeshift masks over their mouths and noses. After a moment, Rothchild smelled why. He held his own sleeve over his nose.

Alex Dargon did the same and continued his explanation in a somewhat muffled voice, "When the pressure in the tank builds up to a certain point, the excess gas is piped off to the surface, where it's let off into the atmosphere."

"And how is it that the tank knows what the pressure is?" Rothchild asked.

"I was getting to that." Dargon told him, "We have a pressure regulator valve placed at the pipe exit. It's got a spring calibrated to exert a force equal to that just below the maximum pressure allowed in the tank. It's holding the door shut, so to speak. When the pressure builds up enough to counteract the force of the spring, the door opens and lets off the excess gasses."

"Why isn't all the gas released? Why is the tank there at all?"

"Doctor Howlett and Doctor Li both thought we might eventually use it to power an electrical generator." Dargon explained, "It would be much more difficult to shut down the generator and put the tank in later than it would be to simply place it in at the start."

"So why did the tank explode?"

"Simply? The spring in the pressure regulator had been torqued beyond the pressure limits of the tank. The tank burst first. Then all it took was a spark and…boom!"

Feet crunching on the wreckage made them look backwards. The Wanderer was walked towards them with a grim expression on his face. He didn't seem to take notice of the foul smell.

"I wondered when you would arrive." Rothchild said.

"What happened?" the Wanderer asked, looking from him to Dargon.

Alex groaned, "Please don't make me repeat all that. I just finished explaining it to Rothchild."

"I won't." the Wanderer promised, "Just tell me, was it sabotage?"

"Yes." Said Dargon.

The Wanderer looked to Rothchild, who sighed, "It certainly looks that way."

"Any ideas on who did it?" the Wanderer asked.

"Someone with an extremely intimate knowledge of how this purifier works." Alex said, staring hard into the middle distance, "You'll be wanting to look for someone who is normally around the purifier all the time, but was probably absent during the explosion…"

The Wanderer nodded, filing the tip away for further use, "can it be rebuilt?"

Alex sighed, "the tank is busted, but as Rothchild pointed out, we don't really need it. The electronics are going to be hard to replace, but if I could, I could reprogram it."

"Doctor Li did leave a full set of schematics before she left." Rothchild supplied

"Try Vault 112." The Wanderer prompted, "There's plenty of unused equipment in there. It's under a garage just west of Evergreen Mills."

"Will do, thanks for the tip." Alex's voice was distant. Rothchild knew the expression, had worn it himself many times. It was the expression of a man in full creative swing, his mind ablaze with possibilities and scenarios for the future.

"You know…" the scientist murmured, "Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing…I mean the original purifier was a boondoggle. A mess slapped together out of a hundred different parts from a hundred different places. Nine times out of ten, the parts were incompatible. Maybe now is a chance to redesign it. Cut the fat and improve the input/output ratio. I mean we know how it works now, right? All the parts can be replaced I'm sure…" His face fell suddenly as a thought struck all three of them:

"Was the G.E.C.K. damaged?" the Wanderer asked.

"Destroyed." Rothchild murmured. "It was under the control center."

Jason glanced up at the massive hole in the ceiling. The underside of some of the catwalk was just visible beyond a tangle of twisted rebar. The Wanderer stared up at it, "I'll check around. There has to be another one somewhere in the world…"

"Jason," Rothchild said, catching his attention. Rothchild knew the Wanderer's name, but usually didn't use it.

The Wanderer looked back down at him.

"Your job," said Rothchild, "is to find out who did this, and insure that it doesn't happen again. Let the Brotherhood handle fixing the purifier."

"And the G.E.C.K.?"

"That as well." Rothchild told him seriously, "We have to make sure that this doesn't happen again. We'll get a new G.E.C.K.. You…do what you do best."

* * *

**This is going to be a more regular adventure, so please don't expect as much in-depth analysis of the characters. Modus Operandi set the board, now we get to have fun moving the pieces around.**


	3. Chapter 3

Aqua Vitae 3

Rothchild found Owyn Lyons in the elder's private office. The man was busy signing a permission form allowing knight Taylor to wear power armour. He looked up and nodded as Rothchild took a seat.

"How go the repairs?" the Elder asked.

"Too early to tell" the scribe answered, "We don't have a list of the damaged components yet, which means I don't know what to replace or where to start. The Wanderer gave us a tip as to where we could acquire more computer systems. I have Artemis and Tristan checking it out right now."

"Was the G.E.C.K. damaged?" Lyons asked brusquely, trying to keep the meeting short. He had four different piles of paper on his desk, and was shuffling through them at an alarming speed, transferring papers from one pile to another, signing some, putting others in the small garbage can beside him.

"Destroyed." Rothchild told him, "I told the Lone Wanderer that we'd handle repairs if he found out who did it."

"Good." Lyons said, "I don't want that man anywhere near the Citadel at this point."

"Yes, I saw the railroad spike." Rothchild said, "Was anyone hurt?"

"No." Lyons sighed, "Sarah stopped him before it got out of hand, but Scribe Bigsley did have to change his robes."

Rothchild suppressed a smile, "His father died for the project, and he's invested his own life in making sure it succeeds. It's reasonable that he be upset by this whole fiasco."

"It's not just that!" Lyons snapped, signing a paper as if it had done him a great personal injury, "It's Sarah."

"Ahh…" Rothchild nodded knowingly.

"I was well aware that the two of them had grown close during the Pitt incident, but…"

"Too close for your comfort?" Rothchild asked gently.

The Elder didn't answer him. He didn't need to.

"Are you aware she left with him for Megaton?"

"Acutely."

"…As for the G.E.C.K.," Rothchild said, tactfully changing the subject. He held up a clipboard he had brought with him, "I looked through the database in the citadel's terminals. There was only one G.E.C.K. in the capital wasteland."

"As expected. Where is the next closest?"

Rothchild handed his friend the clipboard, Lyon took it wordlessly. He gave it a quick glance, and then did a double take. He gave Rothchild a grave look, "Really?"

"Yes." The Scribe replied, "Not all of them were placed in vaults. I suspect that there are quite a few of them placed at select areas all over the country so that all of America could be grown back if needed. _That _one is the next closest."

"And you've heard the stories, I assume?" Lyons asked, "It is not a pleasant place."

"No," Rothchild replied, "But we need a G.E.C.K." he paused, watching his friend, "Unless you'd like me to contact Jason Howlett and have _him_ retrieve it. I believe he's been there before…"

"NO!" Lyons handed Rothchild the clipboard, "We'll handle it. Assemble a team and have them meet tomorrow in the briefing room. Take anyone and anything you think you'll need."

* * *

Sarah looked around the inside of Jason's house. The man had cleaned it up, made it look like a home. The space which used to be occupied by an enormous amount of weapons had been cleared. He had placed a wooden table in the center with benches on either side. Shelves sat around the perimeter of the room with books and trinkets placed neatly upon them. The only remnant of the armory was a weapons locker near the door within which were Jason's favorites. His workbench still sat against the stairs. In one corner sat a fancy looking machine which had been filled with bobbleheads. Several old pre-war posters adorned the walls. He had made an effort to turn his house into a home, and as usual, had accomplished quite a lot in a very short period of time.

Jason placed a glass full of cold beer in front of her. He slid a plate across to her. A Brahmin steak was sitting on it, along with a fresh potato. He sat down opposite her and began to tear into his own steak.

"Where did you find fresh potatoes?" she asked, cracking hers open. A tantalizing jet of steam billowed from the white innards. She felt a damp spot spreading across her lap, and looked down in alarm. A large wolf-like mongrel had laid its head across her lap and was staring up at her with big, soulful eyes.

He whined pitifully.

"Get off!" Jason ordered, "That's her steak, you've had yours!"

"It's alright." Sarah assured him. She reached down and scratched the animal behind the ears. In response, it licked every part of her it could reach. She was amazed; just that morning, Jason had been forced to lock it away upstairs for fear it would try and tear her throat out, "So where did you find the potatoes?"

"Stole them." Jason said casually, "The security around Rivet City labs is piss, quite frankly."

She suppressed a laugh, "Imagine that. The Lone Wanderer stole potatoes. I'd never have guessed. What if I don't want potatoes acquired through dirty underhanded tricks?"

"Give it to Dogmeat. I'm sure he'd love to eat it."

She glanced down at the dog. It was giving her a begging look scientifically and fiendishly designed to sap her willpower. She leaned in and started into her meal, trying not to feel guilty. It was delicious; hot, juicy, and grilled to near perfection.

She asked, "Did you learn how to cook in the vault?"

"They taught me the basics." He replied, "But don't get too impressed, it's the only meal I actually know how to cook. Usually I'm in a cave somewhere cracking open a tin of beans."

She nodded, examining their situation: a romantic dinner for two at his house. Gentle music was playing on a jukebox near the stairs. It served as an excellent background to their conversation. Three-Dog had not actually announced anything in over an hour and a half. Sarah privately suspected that Jason had pulled some strings. He had shaved and dressed in a neat Pre-war shirt with jeans. The left sleeve was rolled up to allow for his pip boy. The Wanderer had completed the image of the romantic dinner with a set of prewar candles. The gods alone knew where he had found them.

It was a far cry from the first meal they'd shared: a few cans of dog food in a survival shelter under the monster infested northern mountains.

"So…about the purifier…" she began.

Jason paused in the act of chewing a particularly tough piece of meat. He finished slowly, giving her a cautious, defensive look, "I was really hoping to avoid that topic." He told her honestly.

"Too bad." She replied stubbornly, "I raised it. In case you forgot, keeping things bottled up didn't help you last time."

"There's not much to talk about…" he said, just a hint of anger creeping into his voice, "Someone blew up my father's dream, and my mother's." He took a sip of his beer, "Rothchild said you guys would take over rebuilding it." He motioned at the table settings, "This is all one last hurrah before I go off the grid for a while. I'm going to find the saboteur, and kill him."

"Do you have any leads?"

"None. That's the bad part. I don't know where to start…"

Sarah laughed, "Really? In all the years you've been wandering the wasteland, and you have _no _contacts?"

"I have my reputation for a reason, Sarah. Every badguy I've met in the capital wasteland is dead. I've travelled the width and breadth of it, so there aren't that many left willing to talk."

She motioned at the trinkets and bobbles surrounding them, "And these are all mementoes?"

"Most of them," he pointed at a quill with an ink well beside it, "I used those to forge a copy of the Declaration of Independence," he directed her attention at a fancy looking hat with a feather in it, "That was worn by the head of the slavers in the capital wasteland. He doesn't have one anymore, so I took the liberty of taking it home." He pointed further up to where a nasty looking machine was hanging from the wall, "That's the Man-Opener. It's an autoaxe from the Pitt."

"I know." Sarah shuddered; she'd once come far too close to being cut in half by one of them.

"I have plenty of clothing, too. Uniforms and stuff from different factions. Talon armour and the like."

"Really?" Sara leaned forward, "do any pieces stand out right now?"

"Right _now_?" he thought for a moment, "Well there's the stealth armour I got from helping the outcasts open a vault."

"And how did you do that?" she asked.

"They hooked me into a simulation of operation anchorage. I spent an afternoon fighting communists. Then they let me into the vault."

"Who headed the operation?" she asked curiously.

"McGraw." Jason said, "His lieutenant tried a coup right after I opened the vault. I stopped them, and McGraw let me pick anything I liked."

"What did you take?" Sarah asked, realizing why the Outcasts had been there to assist him during the battle at Evergreen Mills.

"The stealth armour." He smiled at her, "You'll see that someday. Then again," his grin widened, "Maybe you won't."

She nodded at a safe which was concealed beside a shelf, "What's in there?"

He glanced over at it and the grin disappeared. His voice took on a serious tone, "Let me keep _some_ secrets, Sarah."

"Just tell me!" She insisted, "What harm could it do?"

"More than you'd think." He replied, "But it's a book."

"Why would you keep a book in a safe?"

"As I said, let me-"

"Keep some secrets…right." She pointed across at the wall. Below the Man-Opener was a strange weapon. She'd seen one very similar during Jason's rescue. It had been carried by a woman named Somah, "Where did you find that?"

"On an alien spaceship floating in orbit above us." He said. He watched her expression and grinned, "It's commanded by a little girl and run by a soldier, a cowboy, and a samurai."

Sarah set her cutlery down in annoyance, "Be serious."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

She sighed and shook her head in exasperation, looking around for something else to distract him with. She met the eyes of something which sent chills down her spine. It _should _have been jolly. It really should have. It had all the markings of a jolly face: the wide grin, large, mirthful eyes…

She heard Jason's quiet voice, yet it had become background noise, "Oh, Christ. Don't stare at it, Sarah. One second."

Yet the grin was that of a lank, spidery murderer whose long pale hands have wrapped around the throat of his helpless victim. The mirthful eyes possessed an otherworldly quality, and were focused directly on Sarah. It awakened within her all the illogical fears and worries of her four-year-old self. Fear of the darkened doorway, and what might lie beyond. The reason she had always insisted that there be light in the room. The anonymity of the mask suggested that not only would any wearer be completely unknown to her, but that it might not even be fully human. The light itself had been warped by the mask. Through some unholy act, it had been placed in the shadows underneath the upper floor catwalk. The suddenly insufficient light had only managed to illuminate the face itself, leaving the rest of the mask in a blanket of shadows.

It was too easy to imagine it leaping up, arms and legs extending from the neck; a long slender man, rushing at her with inhuman speed, wrapping it's spindly, delicate fingers about her throat and squeezing, giggling all the while…

"WADSWORTH!" She heard Jason's roar from a long way off.

The Mask suddenly vanished under a heavy blanket, releasing her from the grip of it's gaze. She blinked, reality flowing back in. Her elbows were on the table, he head between them, neck twisted at an awkward angle in order to keep her eyes fixed on the mask. Both of her hands were covering her neck and the back of her head in the same fetal protective stance she'd taken the first time she'd ever seen a ghoul. She had been four years old at the time, living across the continent in the Lost Hills bunker.

The Wanderer's squid-like manservant floated down the stairs. "Yes sir?"

"What is that thing doing there?" Jason demanded. Sarah sat up straight, forcing herself to relax. Jason's face was painted with the same fear she felt, and a little more.

"I don't know sir." The robot admitted, "I do recall putting it upstairs in the coatroom under a blanket as you requested…Perhaps you don't recall-"

"_I _didn't put it down here!" Jason roared, "Take it upstairs right now!"

"Yes sir!" The robot's claw clamped onto the bundle and lifted. As it swung around to proceed up the stairs, the bundle opened, spilling the object out onto the table, where it rolled to a halt in front of Sarah, rocking gently. Once again those eyes were fixed upon her, marking her.

Jason reached across the table gingerly. He whimpered slightly and grabbed the mask by its unsettling frilly polka dot hat. Then he rushed it upstairs. Sarah heard a door slam.

The Wanderer reappeared, wiping his hands unconsciously on the back of his shirt. He took a seat across from her and shut his eyes, letting out a long breath.

"What the hell was that thing?" she asked, "Where did you get it?"

"The Pint-Sized Slasher mask. Don't ask. Just try to forget about it."

"But-" Sarah began to protest.

"Forget it. You know, I've seen a lot of horrifying things in my time…" he told her, rubbing the back of his neck, "And here in the capital wasteland, I own the darkness. It's mine and I do what I want with it. One of the hardest lessons I learned was that there are some areas of the world where I'm not the scariest thing hiding in it…"

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" Sarah asked. They both chuckled, but she could see that the fear in his eyes was as strong as ever.

* * *

She awoke early the following morning to the sound of Wadsworth, Jason's Butler saying: "Sir, I've taken the liberty of arranging the stealth package for you on the table. Miss Lyons' armour has been arranged in the coatroom."

"Thank you."

Sarah recognized the tone of Jason's voice. He was in what she was starting to think of as 'Wanderer' Mode. She rolled onto her back and stared at the corrugated metal ceiling of Jason's home. He had offered her the bed as neither one of them was willing to risk a solo night run back to the citadel.

The early wake-up call didn't bother her much; she'd spent her entire life waking up to the harsh sound of a stick or other implement being pounded against a metal trash can, usually accompanied by the words, "Wakey wakey eggs and bakey, drop your cocks and grab your socks!" or some such reveille.

She rose from the bed and slipped on a Brahmin skin outfit, to keep out the morning chills, and stepped out onto the catwalks which made up the second story floor of his building.

Jason was seated at the table, which had been cleared of dishes. A terrifying array of weaponry had been laid out upon it. Sarah recognized a few implements from previous adventures. His sleek, black scoped assault rifle took up the center. He had disassembled it, and was cleaning each part with robotic precision.

"Good morning." Sarah called.

The Wanderer looked up at her blankly. She saw watched his eyes as they analyzed her, came to the conclusion she wasn't a direct threat, and lost interest. He went back to his work. She sighed, and walked down the stairs to join him. "Is Jaons in there, somewhere?"

His mask faded, "Sorry."

"It's alright."

She watched him work, "What's this about packages?"

"I take different things with me depending on what I'm planning to do." He said, "Some days I'm going into a heavy fight, so I tell Wadsworth to set up the heavy package and he lays out combat armour, a shotgun, and my Chinese assault rifle. Some days I'm going stealthy, so it's the combat knife, sniper rifle, and scoped assault rifle."

"And this trip?" she asked.

"On this trip I'm going to ask some questions." Jason said.

"I'm not too sure people will answer."

"Not at first." He murmured quietly.

"Just so long as you don't go too far, Jason." She warned.

* * *

The trip from Megaton to the citadel was not a very risky one. A benefit of Project purity was that a lot more foot traffic had created set routes between Megaton, Rivet City, the Purifier, and the Citadel. All of the routes were patrolled regularly, and were relatively safe. She did spot several supermutants, but they were on the far side of the Potomac, and no threat to her.

Sarah arrived in the citadel late in the afternoon to find the courtyard in an uproar. A stack of purified water and other supplies had been placed in the center, preventing regular training from taking place. Scribe Rothchild was directing scribes and knights alike, all of whom were dropping off equipment and supplies, making the pile grow. Ammunition and rifles had been stacked in a separate pile of their own.

Obviously something major was about to be undertaken.

Sarah walked up and tapped Rothchild on the shoulder, "What's going on?"

"You'd better talk to your father." The man said, stopping a knight who had his arms full of blueprints, and directing him to the far side of the pile, "How was your evening with the Wanderer?"

"Not my father's business." She replied stiffly.

Rothchild sighed and turned to her, "He wasn't going to hear about it, Sarah. I've known you nearly as long as he has. I was not speaking on Owyn's behalf.

Sarah deflated; "In that case, it was…" she shrugged helplessly, not sure what to put to words, "Relaxing. He cooked Brahmin steak and a fresh potatoes."

The old Scribe smiled, "I'm happy for you. Report to your father. We're taking a little trip."

* * *

Sarah entered the citadel's briefing room and saluted stiffly, "Senti- _Star Paladin _Lyons reporting as ordered _sir_."

Her father nodded to the few knights in the room and they exited, leaving him alone with his daughter. In the corner of her eye, she saw the network of cracks where the railroad spike had impacted the wall.

He took a seat on the far side of the curved desk and examined her, "How was your trip, Sarah?"

"Good." She replied, keeping as much emotion out of her voice as possible. She kept her eyes fixed on a spot one foot above, and four inches to the right of her father's head, "What are your orders, sir?"

Her father sighed, "Sarah, I don't want to spend the rest of my life referring to my own daughter by her last name. Please, drop the act and talk to me."

Sarah relaxed her stance, but kept her voice official, "Scribe Rothchild ordered me to report to you. Something about a trip."

"Straight to business, hmm?" he look down a stack of papers in front of him, "Alright…How would you like to earn your rank back?"

Sarah frowned, "Sir?"

"The G.E.C.K. was destroyed in the explosion. In order to repair the purifier we need another. Reginald was able to locate one in a park in Maryland." Elder Lyons put a piece of paper aside, "You are going to retrieve it."

"Maryland?"

"Point Lookout National Park, to be precise." Her father said.

"Isn't…" Sarah frowned, "Punga fruit comes from there, doesn't it?"

"Yes. I'm sending you with Knight Captains Gallows and Colvin, Knight Artemis, and Knights Pek and Taylor."

"I'd much prefer to take the Pride, Sir."

"I've split the Pride, Sarah."

"You _what_?" she gasped, genuinely shocked, "Dad? What?"

"The purifier consisted of many different parts, the replacements for which are scattered across the entire capital wasteland, as far north as Old Olney and the republic of Dave. Quite a few of them are at the ruins of Raven Rock. We have a limited supply of fresh water and the purifier must be fixed before we run out. I will not allow this wasteland to slip back by three years. Each member is leading a squad of their own, and all of them are tasked with retrieving different parts. I am sending you to retrieve the most important one, and I am giving you more backup than any of the other squads will have. Rothchild and several scribes of his selection will accompany you. Report to him for instructions, and get your squad together. You'll be heading south for the riverboat tomorrow morning."

* * *

**I'm dead set on having longer chapters for this story, the lower limit being 3000 words, so they'll take me longer.**

**I found the Pint-Sized Slasher's theme song. It's called 'Clowntime' by Doug Boyle, and I played it during the Tranquility Lane section, and believe me, it works REALLY well…**

**And about the second G.E.C.K.'s location, yeah, it's a stretch, but it's one I'm willing to put up with. If you have a problem, speak now or forever hold your peace. I've never found a fallout fanfic featuring Point Lookout, so this just might be the first. Then again, I haven't looked very hard, so…**


	4. Chapter 4

Aqua Vitae 4

Metro station. Six raiders. Four were atop the mezzanine, two below. The raiders below patrolling on steady routes around the pillars and crashed railcars, covering the single tunnel entrance. One of them male, the other female. Both armed with assault rifles.

Of the four above, two resting in a pool of light, playing a game of cards on an old table. One was standing sentry in the ticket booth, watching the station exit with tired eyes. Armed with a hunting rifle.

The sixth raider, the most alert, sitting on his bench overlooking the station floor far below where, like clockwork, the walkers pass by periodically. Armed with a 10mm submachine gun.

_As with eliminating well-positioned pawns in a game of chess, the trick was to start with the one covering the others._

The vision of the man on the bench blurred for a moment. He rubbed his eyes to clear them. He felt a prickling pressure in his side, and his head bowed forward. To the average watcher, it looked as if he had fallen asleep. He had, in a broad sense.

His passing left the sentries on the floor below unprotected.

Fifteen seconds passed. On the floor below, the female walker passed behind a pillar and out of view. There was a soft noise, and she vanished forever.

As the male walker passed underneath an escalator, two lead slugs buried themselves in the back of his head. On the way down, something caught his assault rifle, preventing it from clattering and alerting the last three raiders.

The raider in the ticket booth set down his jet filled inhaler and stared out at the darkness, swaying gently from side to side as the drug rushed through him. An image melted into view. The raider squinted at it, trying to tell the difference between it and the sudden kaleidoscope of swimming colors. He could just make out the shape of an apparition in a black suit with a yellow mask. It was holding something in its hands. It _could_ have been a gun, though for all the good the raider's drug addled brain was doing, it might have also been a molerat…

The card players both looked up as a clang echoed through the now empty train station.

"Hey Razor," one of them shouted at the ticket booth, "Are you doin' alright?"

"I think I dropped my gun." A voice answered unsteadily.

There was another, quieter thump.

"_I_ think he dropped some acid." The inquirer murmured, packing up the deck and shuffling with practiced hands. His comrade laughed.

_Night vision. That was important. See them, and they can't see you._

The dealer began to pass cards out. One for his companion, one for himself. One for his companion, one for himself.

His friend collected his cards and held them up to have a look. There was a quiet noise from the depths of the shadows surrounding their small table. The pool of light was only strong enough to allow them to see each other. The contrast between the yellow light and the darkness of the shadows turned the rest of the station into a black morass.

The cards in his friend's hands exploded into a billowing cloud of paper shreds. The player's head came down and hit the table with a wet splat. The dealer dove sideways, pushing the table over and scrambling behind it. With shaking hands, he loaded his 10mm pistol.

"Do you want to live?" a voice from the very gates of hell echoed through the empty station. The raider stared into the dark, dripping hole which was formerly his companion's face. He peered over the makeshift cover into the darkness. The light from the lantern was not allowing his eyes to adjust. He ducked back down and cursed wildly.

"Do you want to live?" the voice asked.

"Yes!" the raider answered.

"You will answer my questions."

"Yes!" the raider said, "Christ, I was just playin' cawds!"

"If you tell the truth, you live." The voice said, "If you lie, you die slowly. Painfully. If you fight back, you die quickly."

"Look," the raider pleaded, "Youah the Lone Wanderah, right? I'll change my fuckin' ways! I'll be good! I'll help da old ladies across the street I swear! Just don't kill me!"

"Project Purity exploded two days ago."

"I know! Three-Dog said so!" the raider shouted frantically, "I had nuthin' ta do with it, I sweah!"

"Do you know who did?" the voice demanded.

"Yeah!" the raider said, inventing desperately, "I remembah a man comin' through heyah four days ago talking about planting a bomb. He was tall with black hair and –Ahh!" he shrieked as a railroad spike slammed through the table just inches from his head.

"Remember what I told you about lying?" the voice asked.

"I remember! Oh Christ I remember!" The raider tossed his gun into the darkness, babbling incoherently, "I didn't mean it! I don't know what happened to da purifiah! I was heyah de entire time! Don't kill me! I'll change my ways! I'll go to Rivet city and sign on. Dem's always lookin' for more security for da watah caravans! The name's Scrooloose. So's you can check wiv'em!" he paused, listening to the darkness.

There was no reply.

"Hello?" he ventured.

Still the darkness was silent.

"You still dere?" he asked.

He waited for several minutes, and then built up enough confidence to peek over the top of the table. A railroad spike hit him in the eye.

* * *

The expedition left the citadel in the early afternoon, mostly due to Rothchild's delays. The scribe appeared more and more flustered as the hours floated past. His pile of luggage kept growing in direct relation to how panicked he appeared. It had been a very long time since he had been on a trip, and he seemed to be trying to bring everything. His hands were full of schematics and maps. Beside him was a huge amount of clothing. He was changing his mind three times a minute. Sarah could see that the patience of the scribes under his command was straining visibly.

She examined his pile, then walked up to him and pulled him aside, "Why on earth would you need your dress robes?"

"We're going a completely new location, Sarah. If there are any locals, I want to give them a good impression."

"And the schematics for Liberty Prime?"

"It's a long trip there." Rothchild explained, "I want something to do on the way."

Sarah glanced backwards at her own squad. The five soldiers were sitting or lying down, waiting for the trip to start. Each of them had one small pack containing nothing more than a few extra changes of clothes, plus excess weapons and ammunition.

"Colvin brought two decks of cards." She said, "That'll do."

"_Cards_?" Rothchild looked skeptical, and slightly insulted.

"Not good enough for you?" Sarah asked, "When I was with Jason, we spent our time staring at the wall. I'm sure you can find something to occupy your time. You've been at home too long. You've gone soft."

"This coming from the woman who had fresh potatoes and steak last night…" the scribe responded.

"One bag." Sarah said firmly, "Big enough for only one scribe to carry. Dad gave me command of this mission. We travel light, fast. We get in, grab the G.E.C.K., and get out. We only speak to any locals if we have to."

* * *

Eight Talon Company mercenaries stood about the doorway to the Anchorage War Memorial. None of them seemed to want to move.

"This is a bad idea." A young, shotgun toting merc ventured, "If he was so easy to take down, someone else would have done it by now…"

"Someone did." Another reminded him, "A bunch of raiders managed to take him prisoner. That's gotta be harder that killing him, right? And we're better than them."

"I was there…"An older Merc told them, "The entire wasteland stood up to get him out. What'll you think they'll do to us if we kill him?"

"Does it matter?" a third one asked, "With the commission, we can move as far away as we like. Have as much protection as we like…"

"I don't like the idea," the older merc said.

"Then what the hell are you doing here?" The youngest demanded, "I say we go get'em."

"I was ordered to chaperone you idiots." The old merc muttered, "Personally I think we're screwed. More mercs have died in the past year chasing him than have died attacking the capitol building."

"Really?" the young merc said, fear in his eyes.

"On top of that, this is a mirelurk den." The old merc said.

"_Used to be_." A merc corrected, "The Wanderer cleared it out. Apparently."

"Keep an eye out anyway." The older merc ordered, "He may have missed a few."

"Let's just do it!" a merc said, opening the door.

The other seven followed his lead as he proceeded down the small tunnel into a large, shadowy room.

"Stay together!" the older merc ordered, "Teams of two. He takes you out if you're on your own. If in doubt, shoot."

"Would you stop scaring the greenhorns?" one of the mercs asked, examining a large rectangular hole in the ceiling. Light was shining through it, bathing the area beneath in a bright pool.

"Just tryin' ta keep'em alive." The older merc said, "This guy has killed a lot of my friends."

The experienced one lowered his combat shotgun in exasperation and turned, "Look, if a couple raiders can take him , down then there's no reason why we…" He stared at their expressions, "What?"

They had all seen the shimmering shape behind him. He was suddenly launched into a nearby pillar. The distortion emitted three metallic clangs and the hiss of escaping steam. The merc was pinned to the pillar by three railroad spikes, one through his head, one through his raised arm, and the other through his leg, leaving him in an almost comical position. The other seven opened fire and bathed the entire area in lead and lasers. After the smoke cleared, they stared at the carnage. The wall was peppered in bullet holes, but no blood at all.

"I see'im!" one of the young mercs shouted, pointing at a corridor in which the air was shimmering. He ran towards it, firing his pistol. When he reached the doorway, his pistol ignited the gas cloud which had gathered in the hallway. He was framed for a moment, his silhouette visible against the light of the fireball, then it engulfed him and he was gone.

"Jesus!" the six surviving mercs drew close together.

"Anyone still want to be here?" the old one asked, "We can simply walk away."

"No we can't." One of his comrades pointed at the tunnel they had entered through. The door had shut. The young merc ran up and tried to open it. "It's locked. Does anyone know how to pick a lock?"

"There's gotta be another way outta here." The old merc grunted, grimacing. This was his nightmare, "Stay together, stay sharp. Watch the shadows. Three of you keep an eye behind us, the other two, keep an eye ahead."

The small band moved slowly through the complex, more than once emptying a clip into the shadows. They came to the central chamber: a three story cavern with multiple levels, catwalks, and balconies any one of which could be the Wanderer's sniper the bottom was a shallow pool of water with mirelurk eggs in it. The foul smell of rotting mirelurk corpses assaulted their nostrils as they stared at the scattered corpses.

"Do we even know where we're going?" one of them asked. His companions shushed him into silence.

They started slowly , edging out onto the nearest catwalk.

"Keep your eyes open. Above and below." The old merc whispered. As he spoke, the man in front of him leaned over the railing, peering into the pool below. To the watcher's horror, the air under him moved. For a moment, a figure was visible. It was wearing a skin-tight black suit with a duster over top, and a yellow faceplate. Ii pulled itself up, grabbed the merc by the throat and dragged both of them into the darkness below. The mercenary landed on a piece of railing two stories below and folded up, bent backwards in a way no livng person could possible survive.

The old merc heard one of his charges begin to pray.

"Keep moving." He ordered, taking a deep, calming breath forhimself, "and watch your step." He guided them off the catwalk, feeling a little more secure with solid floor beneath his feet.

"Maybe we can negotiate…" One of the young mercs said.

"feel free to try." another replied.

The younger one stepped carefully to the edge of the catwalk, "Hey, Wanderer," he said hesitantly, "Can we just talk for a second?"

The other Mercs had gathered against the wall, out of harm's way. Silence fell over the large space.

"Get back here!" The older merc growled, "This ain't worth your life. We just find a way out, and then run for it. Hope he ain't pissed enough to follow."

The young negotiator ignored him, taking a little strength in the fact that the Wanderer hadn't killed him yet, "Look, come out, we promise we won't shoot you."

"We find a way out, and we go!" the old merc insisted, stepping forward to grab his underling by the arm, "He's never left a merc alive."

"He hasn't shot me yet!" No sooner had the young merc said it then the shadows coughed out a railroad spike. It hit the young man in the temple, tearing his head off and pinning it against the wall behind. The body tumbled uselessly off the edge of the precipice and splashed into the water below. The old merc dove backwards, a bolt missing his face by inches. He scrambled to his feet and pulled the three remaining mercs into the safety of a hallway. Six more railroad spikes thunked into the wall behind them.

They charged blindly through the bowels of the tunnel complex, the old merc taking up the rear, watching for any sign of the shimmer.

They crossed into a kitchen area when the papers on the floor flew apart with a resounding snap. The leading merc screamed as the bear trap closed upon his leg. The other two immediately stepped up to steady him. The older merc crouched, covering them. "Spadge," he said, pointing at one merc, "put his arm around your shoulder, support him. Plug a stimpack in his leg. Johnson, you lead and watch your step."

"Did he plant it?" the wounded merc asked.

"Probably." The old merc muttered, "Don't worry, I'll see you guys through. We just gotta find an exit."

They continued, albeit at a slower pace, through the tunnels, keeping a sharp eye out for traps and mines. They came to a large door near the bottom of the complex. It was a double door sitting at the end of a well-lit room. The mercenary named Johnson stepped up to the button . The door slid open revealing the slim, dusterclad figure of the Lone Wanderer, his silenced black assault rifle shouldered. The three young mercs stared at him like deer caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic.

"IwasatEvergreenMills!" the old merc shouted, holding up his hand. The wanderer's trigger finger relaxed slightly.

"I was at Evergreen Mills." The merc repeated, "The name's Jackrum. Check with Reilly, she vouched for me to Vera Weatherly at rivet city. I saved your life. I'm guessing that gives me a freebie."

The Wanderer's head tilted slightly, as if considering whether or not listening was worth it.

"That gives me one favor." Jackrum said, slowly lowering his combat shotgun to the floor, "I'm calling it now. You let these three outta here."

The three young mercs looked at him with mixtures of shock and gratefulness.

"Your life or theirs." The monotone voice filtered through the suit's speakers.

Jackrum stared at him for a moment then said, "You let them out."

The Wanderer was still for a few breathless seconds, and then he stepped aside. Gripping their wounded comrade, one under each arm, the two younger mercs limped away down the tunnel, leaving Jackrum and the Wanderer alone.

"Make it quick." Said the old mercenary. He was old, not by wasteland standards, but by mercenary standards. He was man of forty-three years, with a world-weary expression, and general weatherbeaten manner. His hair was graying at the temples, and he carried himself with the attitude of a man who has seen all that life had to offer.

"Why would you die for them? You're Talon Company."

Jackrum smiled humorlessly. It was not any favor which had saved the lives of his charges, but curiosity on the Wanderer's part.

"I was ordered to chaperone them. If they live, I've done my job. I doubt they're going to go after you again." He stared sideways at the man, unafraid; if death came, there was nothing he'd be able to do to stop it. "I reckon you don't know mercs except from the wrong end of a rifle, Right? Here's what I know: Spadge's got a girl in rivet city he sees regular. Johnson's mum lives in megaton, and he sends his commission to her whenever he can."

"Not interested in their personal lives."

"The fact that they _have_ them is the point." Jackrum surveyed the Wanderer carefully. The man was smaller than he had expected, though that didn't mean much; the weight of the man's legned and accomplishments more than made up for it.

"You going to kill me or not?"

"Project Purity was sabotaged." The emotionless voice intoned.

"Nuthin was ever discussed with me about it." The merc told him, knowing honesty was probably the only thing standing between him and death, "But then again, I don't get ta see all the contracts. I doubt we'd'a been able ta sneak past all them Brotherhood soldiers, though. We usually don't deal in shit that big."

"Is it possible?"

"It's possible." Jackrum pulled out a cigarette and lit it, "But I doubt it. Have you tried the enclave?"

"Not yet."

The merc was beginning to feel a little more at ease. He was still well aware that his life was forfeit, but the Wanderer seemed more interesting in talking than killing. At least at that moment, "Why would someone blow up the purifier?" he asked, "I mean yeah, we've interrupted a few shipments and all. We've stolen it and sold it for cash…but pure water is good for everyone, raider, merc or waster, it doesn't matter. It's something we all need."

The Wanderer nodded.

"Da supermutants don't need it." The merc said, "But they also don't sneak."

"They don't." the Wanderer agreed.

They waited in silence. Jackrum took a drag of his cigarette, "So…can I go?" he ventured.

"If you come after me again, I will kill you. You won't even hear the shot."

"Thanks." The merc walked towards the door. After a moment of thought, he said, "I'd be careful if I was you. Someone knew you'd be here. Someone handed us a tip."

"I needed to ask some questions." The Wanderer told him.

The Merc shook his head, "Jesus… I dunno why anyone still takes out contracts on you."

"What is the price on my head?"

"Twenty-five thousand caps." Jackrum said.

The Wanderer nodded in satisfaction and vanished into the darkness. Jackrum let out a long breath, then moved to catch up with his charges.

* * *

Sarah marched to the end of the dock and joined Rothchild, who was deep in an argument with a young red-headed woman. They were standing on the wooden deck of a large riverboat called the Duchess Gambit.

"I don't care what you're after," the young captain was telling him, "You're paying the full price."

"We are on a mission of vital importance to the future of the wasteland!" the scribe argued, "It's in your best interests to allow us free passage."

"No it ain't." the girl responded, "I got costs to cover. And if it's point lookout, then it costs extra, and you're paying it all up front because of the risks."

"What risks?" Sarah asked.

"Out of every ten passengers I drop off there, only two or three actually make it back on the boat." The woman told her, "Everything in that world wants you dead. It usually gets its way. I want my money first or you aren't going anywhere."

"A thirty percent survival rate?" Rothchild asked hesitantly.

"We aren't going to be there long." Sarah reminded him, "We're going to go in, get what we need, and get out. We aren't going there to stir up trouble, and we'll be out before anything happens."

"Yes, of course." Rothchild said, somewhat relieved.

"That's what they all say." The ferryman warned them.

"How much money are we talking about?"

"Four hundred fifty caps per person." The scribe told her, "The Brotherhood has a lot of caps, Sarah, but we can't afford that much."

Sarah turned a glare upon the defiant red-head.

"That's my price." The ferryman said, "Take it or leave it."

The door to the large cabin opened and Knight Artemis stepped out. He tapped Sarah on the shoulder, "The supplies are loaded. Everyone's set up in the cabin. We're ready to go when you are."

"Thank you." Sarah said. To the red-head she said, "You'll be paid upon successful completion of our mission."

"Not an option." The captain crossed her arms defiantly, "I want my money, or you'll get off my boat."

Sarah pulled her aside, "We're taking this boat to Point Lookout, and we're taking it back. Whether or not you're on it is entirely up to you."

"Aren't the Brotherhood of Steel supposed to be the good guys?"

"Yes. And you're stopping us from doing our jobs." Sarah told her, "Did you know that the Purifier is broken?"

"I heard it on the radio." The ferryman replied.

"Do you know who the Lone Wanderer is?"

"Yep."

"Did you know that the Purifier was his dad's dream?"

"I know the story." The woman said impatiently.

"Do I have to call him over and explain to him why you aren't letting us fix it?" Sarah asked.

To her surprise, the woman started to laugh, "I know him. He wouldn't touch me. He owes me."

Sarah stared, suddenly on the wrong end of the conversation, "Owes you what?"

"Oh," the ferryman shrugged lightly, "I found the man who chopped his head open and stole a piece of his brain."

"_What_?"

"Long story. Look, Point Lookout is a nasty place. Not many people survive it. I simply want a guarantee that I'll get my money whether you live or not."

"Rothchild!" Sarah called, her patience wearing thin. The Scribe walked across the deck to join them.

"How many caps do we have?"

"Two thousand five hundred." The old scribe told them.

"And how many people?"

"Ten, including the three scribes I brought with me."

"We'll pay you two hundred a head." Sarah offered.

"You know my price." The woman replied, crossing her arms, "If _you_ want to take the trip, _you_ produce the cash. Understand?"

Sarah sighed. After all things which she'd had to deal with recently, this was just a little more than she could handle. Taking a page out of Jason's book, she turned back towards the cabin and shouted "Gallows!"

The Knight Captain materialized beside her.

Sarah met the red-head's eyes, "We need to get this expedition moving, and I've had enough of trying to barter for passage to Point Lookout. This waster is going to take us there. If she refuses to cooperate, put a round in her head and toss her overboard. We'll let Rothchild figure out how to drive this thing. He has the maps anyway."

The woman's arms uncrossed immediately and she stared at the two of them in shock.

"The Brotherhood of Steel thanks you in advance for your cooperation." Sarah told her, walking away. She found a staircase to the boat's second level, a patio area which had some very comfortable chairs on it. She leaned on the railing and stared across the open water at the dim silhouette of the Jefferson Memorial building. After a short amount of time, and a muffled argument, the paddlewheel began to slowly churn the murky green water. The shores of the capital wasteland slowly slipped away into the dusk horizon.

* * *

**Sorry about the REALLY long wait. I've been *ahem* researching. The fact is that when I wrote Modus Operandi, I hadn't actually played Fallout 3 in quite a while. If you squint, you can spot the errors. So I wanted to be a little more accurate this time.**


	5. Chapter 5

Aqua Vitae 5

Jason crouched on the rocky outcropping, his sniper rifle aimed south towards the enclave camp. Patrolling within it were five power-armoured soldiers, a sentry bot, and Jason's target, an enclave officer. He rested the crosshairs on the sentry bot, waiting for the right moment, running his previous experiences of them through his head. It turned, and he took his shot. The crack of his sniper rifle echoed across the central plains. The enclave soldiers all dove for cover, some of them still exposed to him, others not; they had no idea of the shot's origins.

The bullet flew straight and true, impacting the combat inhibitor, and destroying the bot's ability to tell the difference between friend and foe. It immediately turned to the nearest enclave soldier and opened up with its Gatling laser. It took a few moments for the man to realize what was happening, but he dove over the other side of his small barricade, his armour shredded.

Jason leapt down from his rocky perch, landing lightly on the ground below. He charged towards the enclave camp, using the soldier's distraction as cover. The soldiers were dug in tight, popping out from cover second by second, slowly whittling down the robot's armour.

The Wanderer moved in a silent running crouch and planted a railroad spike in the head of the nearest enclave soldier. He ducked down behind cover, keeping an eye on the officer, who had planted himself behind a nearby rock and was refusing to move, allowing the more heavily armoured units take care of the threat.

Jason spotted a hellfire trooper clad in the heavy version of the enclave armour readying a plasma grenade. The robot had only managed to finish off one enclave soldier, with the others using their cover to great effect. The Wanderer popped out of cover with a silenced 10mm pistol and shot the grenade, removing the hellfire soldier from the land of the living in a giant green blast of energy.

The two surviving enclave soldiers immediately shifted fire to his position. They knew from previous experience that the Lone Wanderer was a far greater threat than the robot. That was just fine; he had planned for it.

The Lone Wanderer crouched, letting his Chinese stealth armour bend the light around him, making him invisible. He circled around behind one unaware soldier and planted a frag grenade in the back of the enclave soldier's armour, pulling the pin and melting back into the wasteland. At such a short range, the armour didn't do much good. The grenade detonated, blowing the soldier in half, leaving only one surviving soldier left. The sentry bot immediately opened up on the poor man's position, cutting the rocky cover away with focused beams of light.

Jason took pity and tossed a pulse grenade at the bot, disabling it in a blinding electrical discharge. He fired another railroad spike through the eyepiece of the man's helmet, ending him as he raised his own plasma rifle. He stood in silence, waiting patiently.

The enclave officer, hearing the cessation of gunfire, poked his head out. He spotted Jason and groaned.

"Step out," The Wanderer ordered, "and drop your weapon."

The officer disappeared for a moment, and then his arm shot around the side of his cover, blindly firing a few plasma shots in Jason's general direction. The Wanderer neatly sidestepped the relatively slow-moving projectiles, and circled around the opposite side of the boulder, knocking the pistol out of the officer's hands and anchoring him against the boulder with a well-aimed railroad spike. The enclave officer screamed in pain as the spike ripped through his shoulder and into the rock behind.

"Project purity." Jason said.

"IS that why you attacked us?" the man demanded, his face pale.

"Did you blow it up?"

"Project Purity is an asset," The enclave officer explained, trying to pull the spike out, "Why would we blow it up?"

"Because it isn't in your hands."

"That doesn't mean we want to destroy it. We want to use it." The man's breathing was ragged, "Why would we blow it up?"

"Someone did."

"And you hate our guts so therefore it was us…" the man shook his head, wincing with the pain, "Have you tried thinking your way through this?"

"Oh, I didn't just attack your camp for that." Jason snarled, the image of his dying father pasted across his inner eye, "I also wanted to watch you bleed out."

The officer whimpered, growing more pale and woozy as the blood loss started to show, "Let me go."

"No."

He said, "I don't want to die…"

"You're enclave." The Wanderer said, "You don't get that choice. The Yao Guai and mole rats will be here soon, drawn by the blood. I think I'll let them finish the job…"

He moved away from the stricken soldier, his blood boiling. There was something about the Enclave. Normally he'd be willing to listen to anyone, try to find a compromise which worked to everyone's advantage. The Enclave was the one group with whom he knew he would never negotiate.

He crouched beside a dead soldier and carefully removed the man's ammunition. Jason disliked energy weapons. He found them to be clumsy, inaccurate, and difficult to maintain. Parts and ammunition for firearms was more common anyway. Especially considering the fact that they were the only kind of weapon the supermutants used.

The hairs on the back of Jason's neck began to prickle, his sixth sense telling him he wasn't alone. He turned immediately, pulling out his pistol and pointing it at the shadowy figure leaning against a dead tree.

"Relax." It said. There was a brief flash of light as the man struck a match and held it up to the tip of an unlit cigarette. The light revealed a leather duster very much like Jason's own, and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, pulled low, concealing the top half of the man's face. All that was visible was a cleft chin, covered in a short, gristly bead, and a mouth with dry, cracked lips, "I ain't here to hurt you," A wry smile formed on the mouth, "Not that I could."

"Name." Jason ordered.

"Mendoza." The man answered easily, not to be intimidated. He gestured out at the carnage of the enclave camp, "What was this supposed to accomplish?"

"Someone blew up the purifier." Jason said, "I'm trying to find out who did it and why."

"Yeah? And how far has this method gotten you?"

Jason glared at the man.

"That's what I thought…"

"What do you want?"

"That's a very nice uniform you have there." The man said, puffing on his cigarette, "Where'd you get it?"

"It's just a duster." Jason replied defensively, "Not a uniform. And I found it on a body in the Arlington cemetery. I liked the look."

"It is a uniform." Mendoza took another puff and let out a stream of smoke, "Have you ever heard of the Regulators?"

"In passing." Jason frowned, "You guys have a headquarters not far from here."

"We do."

"You asked me to cut of the fingers of all the bad guys I kill…"

"We did."

"I refused."

"I always wondered why…?" The man pushed the brim of his cowboy hat up, revealing a pair of sharp eyes.

"Because that'd make me a mercenary." Jason said, "Now unless you have something useful to tell me, don't waste my time."

"How would you like to find out who blew up Project Purity?"

Jason stared.

"I thought so." Mendoza nodded in satisfaction. He gestured at the carnage, "If you continue doing this, the real culprits will hear about it and disappear forever. You'll never find them. Come with me, and we can take them down."

* * *

Sarah was not entirely comfortable with sea travel. The floor moved too much, but she found that it was like wearing power armour: you felt it for the first few hours, then after a while, if you kept yourself busy, you didn't feel it at all.

A small part of her was terrified that the boat would break, leaving the expedition stranded in the open ocean. But she had swallowed her fear, reminding herself of the job and her duty to the capital wasteland, to her father, and to Jason. She also reminded herself that she had undertaken far more risky assignments and come through relatively unscathed.

Colvin had set up a radio, and a makeshift table upon which the soldiers had set up a card game. Sarah wasn't sure how they had managed with the constant rocking, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves and that was the important thing.

Rothchild and his scribes had spread blueprints and designs for a new and improved Project Purity across the bed, ignoring Sarah's previous orders to only bring what was absolutely necessary. The details could be figured out once the new G.E.C.K. was safely back in the citadel.

She stood at the railing of the upper deck, listening to the comforting sound of the ocean waves, the sounds of merriment from the cabin below. Approaching footsteps made her turn. Rothchild joined her, leaning against the thin railing. They stared out across the endless ocean. To Sarah, who had spent her adult life in the scorched capital wasteland, it was a shocking and intimidating thing to see so much water in one place.

Rothchild chuckled, "You were probably too young to remember the last time you saw the ocean."

"How old was I?"

"Two or three years at most." The old man smiled at her, "I have a vague memory of your mother setting you down in a tidal pool on the west coast. You were playing with a sea anemone."

"I can barely remember my mother…" Sarah said, staring out at the blue horizon. A feeling of deep sadness enveloped her.

"She is still alive, I have no doubt." Rothchild said, "And I'm sure she'd be very proud of the woman you've become."

"What do you think happened to her? After dad twisted the rules, I mean."

"I have no doubt that she is still alive and well." Rothchild sighed, "The incident was very hard on your father, you know."

"I know…" Sarah admitted, "I remember he had a lot more grey hair after that…"

"It was that subject upon which I was hoping to speak with you, actually." Rothchild said.

Sarah groaned, "Look, we're having an argument. It happens."

"Yes, but you should really try to patch things up. He won't be around forever, Sarah."

"I'm not going to admit that rescuing Jason was wrong." She said stubbornly, "I did the right thing. You didn't even want to go at all."

"My opinion on the matter was perfectly justified, and it's not the point." Rothchild responded, suddenly on the defensive, "The point is that you should try to see past that issue and start talking to your father again. You and the Wanderer grew very close in a very short amount of time. I believe your father is feeling understandably nervous, perhaps even a little betrayed. "

"I know…"

"I believe he views the Wanderer as an expendable asset."

"That has to change." Sarah said.

"It will as soon as the Wanderer stops acting as one."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sure you already know," Rothchild said, "He speaks in short sentences, gathers the information he needs, and disappears. When he gets back, whatever job he was doing is done. He views us as a resource in much the same way we view him. At least, that's the impression he gives. A supermutant would be easier to talk to."

"Is this going somewhere?" Sarah asked.

Rothchild nodded, "It is. I don't want my closest friend to die with an estranged daughter."

"I still love him," Sarah said, she shrugged, "I'm just angry at him right now. It's nowhere near that point."

"I have an idea to solve the problem. To nip it in the bud, so to speak."

"I thought you might." She said dryly.

"The point of contention is the Wanderer, yes?"

"Yes."

"Has it occurred to you that your father dislikes him because he never got to know the Wanderer as you do?" Rothchild asked.

"Has it occurred to _you _that he never bothered to try?" Sarah replied evenly.

"So get the two of them together in a none-business setting." Rothchild suggested, "Your father has not taken a break from his work in at least a year. He could use a day off. Pick a place. Rivet City, perhaps. Get the Wanderer and your father together around a table and make them get to know each other. Make them talk."

Sarah stared at him, "First of all," she began, "His name is Jason. Second…I doubt Jason would agree to that. Third… when was the last time my father left the citadel? Neither of them would agree to that. Especially not Jason. He'd see it as a waste of time."

"So convince him otherwise."

Sarah stayed silent, watching the waves.

"The fact is that this romance between the two of you is bad for the wasteland and the Brotherhood."

Sarah turned to him furiously, opening her mouth to respond-

"Let. Me. Finish!" Rothchild ordered in a firm, paternal voice, reaching back to the days in the lost hills bunker when he'd ordered her to get off his desk, or stop banging her hands on the keyboards.

Sarah's mouth shut, more out of shock than anything else.

"It is bad for the wasteland because it has drawn…'Jason'… away from his own endeavors. It is bad for the Brotherhood because it has put further strain on your father, and drawn the two of you apart, which is bad for morale. What does it say when an Elder's own child will not obey him? We know that your father's control over the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood of steel is not as firm as we like to pretend. This will only make him look weaker. And in the wasteland, the weak become targets."

Sarah went back to watching the waves.

"But it's good for you," Rothchild said, watching the back of her head, "And I believe it's good for "Jason" as well. It should continue, but not the way it is now. If this feud continues, then one day sometime in the future, you will eventually have to choose between Jason and your own father. And no matter which choice you make, someone will be hurt and the wasteland will suffer because of it."

"Lets just get the G.E.C.K." Sarah said quietly, "I'll worry about the rest when we get back."

"I'm glad we had this little talk." Rothchild said quietly.

* * *

Desolation.

Silent, brooding, windswept desolation….

Jason had once told Sarah that Point Lookout was worse than the Pitt. At the time, she'd hardly been able to imagine a worse place, but as she looked out over the shoreline of the alien world, and at the lonesome Lighthouse on its rocky peninsula, with the cruel waves grasping at its shores, she watched coils of thick fog wind through the knotted branches at the edge of the black forest…

She understood. The Pitt was a terrible place because of the war. Because of the radiation, the Trogs, the living conditions…

Point Lookout was horrific simply because it existed. It wasn't the result of human intervention…it was the lack of it. Or the lack of its effects…There was something dark and timeless about the sand covered beaches; the twisted, tangled bog forest beyond; the constant fog…

It had always been this way. It would always be this way, human intervention or otherwise. Man could build buildings atop it, construct highways and roads, populate the area with people, yet nothing would ever cover the _feel _of the place. No matter what man might have built, the true colors of Point Lookout would always shine through, and taint everything they touched. It was in every rock, every tree, every blade of the long grass, every pebble on the harsh gravel beach. It was in the air, and the water. It was an ambient, indefinable thing, far greater than the sum of its individual components. More a feeling than anything else.

An unbidden word crept into Sarah's thoughts: _Hostile…_

Sarah watched from the bow as the Duchess Gambit pulled into what was left of an old dock. It had, in the pre-war years been part of a pristine boardwalk, but time, the elements, and the force of the land itself had disfigured the planks to end in a tangled waterlogged mass of wood.

At the far end of the dock was the only sign of any human settlement, aside from the forlorn lighthouse, still signaling out beyond the infinite ocean. A small set of oceanside shops had been built along the boardwalk, their windows either smashed or boarded up with dry, cracked planks of sun-bleached wood. Beyond them sat an enormous, rusted Ferris wheel, turning and creaking gently in the intransigent wind.

The expedition had gathered along the port side of the riverboat, and were watched the foreign land with hollow, pensive expressions, none of them willing to make the first noise.

The first to speak was Colvin, who tore his eyes away from the brooding forest and whispered, in a quiet, pleading voice, "I want to go home."

"I think it's beautiful!" said Knight Taylor, his own voice echoing loudly up the beach. As one, the entire expedition tensed, expecting the foreign land to react somehow. Several birds erupted from the edge of the forest. The Brotherhood members relaxed slightly, but still kept a sharp eye on the shoreline. There was the feeling that something had just woken up. A sacrilege had been committed. The words he'd said could never be taken back.

"You want a tip?" the red-headed captain asked, "Keep the ocean in sight at all times. The _really _bad stuff is in the forest. Keep to the beaches, that way you'll survive."

As Sarah took her first step onto the dock her feeling of unease increased tenfold. She was trespassing. She knew it, the expedition knew it, and Point Lookout knew it too.

* * *

**Alright, we're finally at Point Lookout. Now the fun begins. Word of warning, i'll be taking a few liberties with certain parts and aspects of the place, so it won't be exactly as you remember in-game. But i'm hoping it'll pay off in terms of atmosphere and storyline.**

**I always felt that Rothchild and Sarah would have a very interesting relationship. Hopefully i'll be exploring that a little further.**

**Mendoza is a OC. I needed another regulator, as the only two confirmed characters are Lucas Simms and Sonora Cruz, but they're both busy. **

**Anyway, read&review. If you have comments, questions, or concerns, lay'em on me.**


	6. Chapter 6

Aqua Vitae 6

Mendez led him to a small unremarkable two-story farmhouse near the eastern edge of the capital wasteland. Jason recognized it from a previous visit. He had been inside it once before, in response to a recruitment poster. Due reasons of his own, Jason had politely declined their offer, but he understood them and what they stood for. He liked to believe that they were at least on the same side. In conversation he found them to be self-righteous and narcissistic, but they were one less gang he had to worry about, and that was never a bad thing.

Their leader was a strict woman, six or seven years older than Sarah. Sonora Cruz, if Jason's memory served. Pompous, but she seemed to believe in her cause.

Mendez led him through a large Brahmin pen and then knocked on the door of the farmhouse.

"Password?" A voice asked.

"Righteousness." Mendez proclaimed.

Jason resisted the urge to snigger.

The door opened and the Wanderer was ushered through. The interior was not well lit, the only source being a small lamp in the corner. Jason flicked a switch on his Pipboy and the room lit up. The interior was larger than Jason had remembered. It was made up of two floors; a large two-room main floor with a staircase leading up to the top level.

"Up the stairs," Mendez grunted, "Amd first-"

"-First door on the right." Jason finished, "I remember."

He followed the instructions, ignoring the curious looks given by the house's occupants. Sonora Cruz was seated at a small desk in the corner of the room. It was positioned awkwardly, facing the door.

She nodded at Jason when he entered, but spoke to Mendez first, "You found him."

"It wasn't easy." The man grunted, lighting another cigarette.

"That's why I sent you. Would you wait outside please?"

Mendez volunteered another grunt and walked out, Leaving Jason and Sonora alone.

"Hello Wanderer," She said, "Nice to see you again. You've done so much for our cause."

"_My_ cause."

"All the way from Girdershade to The Republic of Dave, the unjust have learned to fear the sight of a brown duster." She declared.

"They fear the red bandana." Jason answered, "They aren't so scared they can't shoot at the duster."

Sonora gave him a sideways look, performing what she probably thought was a deep examining expression. "I get the feeling you don't like us very much."

"I don't _Dislike _you," Jason said carefully, "but you're kind of a nonentity. You make far too much of yourselves and your contributions."

"I find that offensive." The Regulator declared.

"What I find offensive is that despite all the big talk of the righteousness of your cause, and how much work you're doing on the side of good, all I've seen is a few dead bounty hunters." Jason responded, "It's an insult to the Brotherhood of steel, who are actually out there sacrificing blood and bone to keep the supermutants at bay and just generally taking care of the wasteland. It's an insult to Three-Dog, and his 'good fight'. And it's an insult to every decent person out there trying to scrape a living off the rocks. You guys talk big, but you've done nothing that I've ever seen."

"Perhaps that is because our agents don't wish to be seen." Sonora responded, looking as if she'd just been slapped.

"Remember who you're talking to." Jason scoffed, "I don't miss things."

The Regulator smiled slightly, "Of course… And have you managed to find out who sabotaged the purifier yet?"

"Not yet." Jason replied through gritted teeth.

"Would it surprise you that _we _have?"

The Wanderer said, "You will give me that information."

"Eventually." The Regulator sighed, "This is a delicate dance. The fact is that we know, or we're _pretty sure_ we know who did it. But we don't know where he is."

"Give me his name and I'll find him."

Sonora smiled slightly, "No you won't. Not by knocking down doors. If you continue _that_ he'll disappear altogether. We're more than happy to supply you with as much information as you require. But in return, you have to change your strategy. Right?"

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Be more subtle." The woman told him.

Jason nodded, "I can do that."

"Your target is a man by the name of Daniel Littlehorn."

Jason's mind flipped through his own mind's enormous catalogue. Every face, name, and location he had visited in the capital wasteland, and he came up…empty. "I've never heard of him."

"I'd have been very surprised if you had," Sonora told him.

"What do you know about him?"

"He keeps a low profile, first of all." The Regulator said, "Littlehorn and Associates, his organization, has been engaged in a private war with the regulators for over fifty years, and only recently did we even find out his first name. Littlehorn and Associates does its business through proxy. You've met one of them, I believe. A mister Burke? Wanted you to blow up Megaton?"

Jason shook his head, "No, Burke was working for Tenpenny. And how did you hear about that?"

"I'm sure that's what Tenpenny thought," Sonora told him smoothly, "and Lucas Simms is one of us. That's why he wears the duster. Anyway, one of Littlehorn's most visible proxy organizations is a mercenary group. The Talon Company."

"I already interrogated them."

"yes, we heard." The Regulator sighed, "that's why we tracked you down in the first place. You were getting too close, and making Littlehorn nervous. Our one saving grace was that the Merc you interrogated didn't actually know anything."

"So I'll march into fort bannister and ask his boss some questions."

Sonora shook her head, "Subtlety, Wanderer. If you want this man, don't blow up the Talon Company. Daniel Littlehorn will vanish into thin air."

"Well what, then?"

Sonora Cruz smiled, "Enlist."

* * *

Sarah proceeded slowly up the warped, uneven boardwalk towards a faded yet still sickeningly cheerful sign which said 'Pilgrim's Landing'. The rest of the expedition followed, rifles raised. Despite the fact that no enemy was in sight, the soldiers' sixth senses were telling them they were in danger. The boards under her feet creaked and groaned, protesting the weight of their power armour.

The amusement park streets were covered in detritus; newspapers, popcorn bags, and pizza boxes. Signs covered the buildings, advertising gift shops or junk food, though the shops themselves had all closed two hundred years before. She turned right and found herself facing a large courtyard, with broken arcade machines piled at the far end. To her left was an ancient bumper car corral. The sign above had so many missing letters it was nigh unreadable. A securitron bot patrolled the interior of the courtyard.

"Welcome travelers," Said an ethereal voice. Colvin pointed to the source: a woman, older than Sarah, with tanned, dark skin. She spread her arms in a wide, welcoming gesture as Sarah and Colvin walked over.

The expedition filed into the plaza, the scribes at the center protected by Pek and Artemis. Taylor moved easily over to the Bumper car corral and stood at ease, his rifle hanging by his side. He seemed more interested in watching the fog than keeping sentry duty. Gallows brought up the rear, a silent statue crouched beside the plaza entrance, watching the boardwalk.

"Welcome, Sarah Lyons!" the woman said. Her voice had a foreign accent, and she spoke every syllable with slow deliberation, "The fates told me you would come."

Sarah stared. She glanced questioningly at Colvin, who shook his head. She looked back at the woman, opening and shutting her mouth stupidly.

The woman smiled a knowing smile, "I am Madam Panada. Welcome to my house of wares."

"How do you know my name?" Sarah managed.

"The fates told me you would come." The woman's face grew cold, "You are trespassing. This land has laid its judgment upon you."

"We won't be here long." Sarah promised, telling what she hoped was the absolute truth.

"No," Panada shook her head, telling the absolute truth, "Many of you will not."

"Hello," Rothchild said, stepping forward. The woman regarded him with a curious eye, watching him the way goldfish pay attention to the world outside their own glass bowls.

"…Hello…."said Madam Panada.

Rothchild blinked, and shook his head, as if clearing it, "We're a small group of travelers searching for advanced technologies. Do you know of any place where we could possibly find a G.E.C.K.? Maybe a vault or…" he died away into silence, cowed by the intensity of the woman's ethereal stare.

"I do not know what you seek." Madam Panada intoned, "Only what you will find…"

"I'm sorry," Sarah interrupted, but you said this is a store?"

The woman's hand floated over and opened a large crate. Within it, Sarah's eye caught the gleam of hundreds of small arms rounds. Colvin whistled, "That's a lot of ammunition."

"You will need it all if you wish to survive." The shop owner told them in her slow voice.

"We brought our own weapons and armour." Artemis snapped.

Panada's gaze turned on him, "Your armour will not help you here. The swamp is soft and dark and deep. Many a wayward traveler has been killed, unable to free themselves from its grasp."

"What does that mean?" Colvin asked.

"It means we'll get stuck in the mud," Sarah translated.

"Do you know of any place which might have advanced technology in it?" Rothchild persisted.

"You wish to remove it?" the woman asked.

"Yes."

"Everything in this place has its price," Panada warned, "If you wish to take, you must be willing to give. How valuable is your prize."

"Extremely." Sarah said.

The shop owner turned her ethereal gaze upon the star-paladin, "Then the price shall be a heavy one."

"We have plenty of caps." Rothchild said.

"This land does not want your money." Panada said in a tone of derision. He turned her eyes to the overcast sky, "Night comes. You must take shelter. Pass through the bumper car corral and turn left. You will find the Homestead Hotel."

Sarah glanced at the sky. In the privacy of her own head, she had to admit that being caught outside during the nighttime was the very last thing she wanted to do. She would rather have returned to the capital wasteland with nothing at all.

"Thank you," she turned to Colvin, "Get everyone ready to move." She walked over to Gallows, "Did you catch all that?"

The Knight-Captain nodded.

"Good, "Sarah said quietly, "Get back to the ship. Tell that red-head what the plan is. And watch your back."

The knight-captain watched her in silence, then he said, "You haven't told me to do that in six years."

Sarah shrugged, "Something's not right about this place. If I had my druthers, I'd send Artemis with you, but-"

"I work alone."

Sarah nodded. She looked him up and down. Gallows was a mysterious character, even within the Brotherhood itself. The Pride had worked alongside him for fifteen years, and yet no one had known his first name until Jason managed to wrestle the information out of him. Sarah realized that she wasn't even sure just how old the scout was. He was the Brotherhood's master scout. A stealthy, silent killing machine second only to the Lone Wanderer himself in his ability to move about unseen and kill with impunity. If he ever needed help, the likelihood was that they were _all _dead whether he had aid or not.

"One more thing," she said, "Remind the woman that the Brotherhood in the capital wasteland knows we're here. If she comes back without any of us, they'll finish what you started."

"Cut her fingers off?"

Sarah stared, "Is that what you threatened her with?"

"Among other things." The man loaded his sniper rifle, unconcerned, "You wanted me to scare her into submission. I did my job."

"…Anyway, when you're done, meet us at the homestead hotel."

The man nodded and turned back the way they had come, his power-armoured shape moving in near silence on the wooden boardwalk. In the meager dusk light, Sarah walked over to the rest of the expedition and led them past the derelict bumper cars and onto the thin road beyond. On the far side of the cracked pavement was wilderness; blackened bushes, harsh brush and stiff knee-high grass of the sort that cut shins. The brush only grew thicker, the terrain more treacherous as she looked further inland. Beyond the brush was the bog forest, the thick constant mist within coiling within hidden shadows.

The land was sending a clear message. A line in the sand; _this_ is mine, _that_ is yours. Touch mine, and you'll get yours.

"Jesus…" Colvin said in disgust, "Look at the trees."

Sarah did so. They were completely different from the capital wasteland trees. The trees in the capital wasteland were broad, tall, proud plants with wide trunks and big branches spreading over large areas, only a depressing sight because they were dead. The trees of Point Lookout were very much alive, but did not look like they wanted to be. Their branches were long and spidery, and all pointed straight towards the sky, as if trying to escape the very ground their roots had dug into, though that sentiment might have been Sarah's own. The more she saw of Point Lookout, the more she wanted to leave.

Just down the road was a neglected, forsaken hotel made up of one two-story building in an 'L' shape with a courtyard in the center. The land was already destroying it; sharp brambles and thorn-covered vines were crawling up the sides. The knee-high grass had completely filled in the courtyard, small thick bushes sprouting up at random. The entire area smelled of decay and primeval reclamation. This plot of land did not belong to the small town of pilgrim's landing, it belonged to the marsh.

Two lamps had been lit, each beside the only two doors in the courtyard which had not been boarded up.

Sarah crouched. Behind her, the expedition followed suit. She and Colvin exchanged glances. Lamps never lit themselves…

She motion to the expedition to stay put. Artemis quietly moved to the two initiates and spread them out around the scribes. Keeping low, Sarah and Colvin moved to the low fence surrounding the courtyard. Colvin went first, rolling over the fence and crouching in the grass beyond, his laser rifle raised and pointed at the doors. Sarah followed him and they made their way, crouched, to the nearest door. The ground was soft and their feet sank into it, squelching with every movement. Colvin kneeled in front of the door. Sarah took cover beside him, rifle ready.

The knight-captain tried the door handle. It swung back with the loud, grating squeal of unoiled hinges, made all the louder by the silence of the bog around them. The room itself was empty, save for a skeleton lying on the bed. A suitcase with pre-war money was lying beside him. More money was scattered across the interior of the hotel room. Lying on the floor of the bathroom was a sawed-off shotgun. Colvin moved through the washroom

A smashed television set had been placed on the dresser across from the bed. Oddly, the skeleton didn't bother her. She lifted it off the bed and dumped it in the marsh outside. Sarah had seen skeletons all her life. They were scattered all throughout the capital wasteland. They were in the cars, the houses, and lying on the streets. There was nothing to fear from a skeleton, she knew.

"Hey, Sarah," Colvin called, stepping out of the bathroom, "Look at this."

Sarah looked up and blanched when she saw what Colvin was holding: the bulbous grotesque clown mask with its sadistic grin and mirthful eyes Sarah fought the urge to back away.

"This place gets creepier by the second." Colvin said, looking down at the heinous object.

"Throw it away!" she ordered, "Just get it…get it out of here!"

Colvin frowned, hearing the undertones of frantic fear in her voice, "Sarah?"

"Do it," she pleaded.

The man nodded and walked out the door, the mask swinging to and fro in his grip, watching her. Teasing her...

She sat on the bed and removed her helmet, rubbing her face. She tried to remember what Jason had said about it. The Pint-Sized Slasher…

And he'd said that he wasn't the scariest thing hiding in the darkness…

Knight Artemis stepped into the room and saluted, "I've taken the liberty of splitting the team into two rooms. Rothchild, Vallincourt, Colvin and Pek will be in yours. Everyone else is in the other one. And Gallows is back."

"Thank you." Sarah said, pushing the mask to the back of her mind.

The Knight saluted and turned to leave.

"Artemis," Sarah called out. The knight turned.

"Cover the windows." She ordered, getting to her feet, "and lock your door. Keep the light and noise to a minimum. One sentry watching through the window, three hour shifts. No one is to leave the rooms for any reason whatsoever until the sun's up tomorrow. Have you got all that?"

The knight repeated her orders and gave her another salute, which she returned. Rothchild and half the expedition filed in followed by Colvin, who pulled her aside, "It's it a garbage can. You won't see it again."

"Thank you Colvin."

She waited until everyone was inside, and then locked her door. She took the rotten duvet and, with Knight Pek's help, spread it over the window. They set up a chair so that a sentry could peek out from behind the curtains.

Sarah brushed them aside and peered into the darkness. Night had fallen, lending dark shadows and grim shapes to the wilderness. For the first time since she'd landed, hearing the expedition chattering quietly in the background, she allowed herself to feel slightly secure.

Light flashed briefly, illuminating the courtyard. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

The rain came lightly at first, but grew with erach passing minute. First a light mist, then a sprinkle. It upgraded to a drizzle, then it came down in full, giant droplets pounding the landscape, hammering the trees and the marshes, and the roof of the Homestead hotel. It poured down and through the patchy roofing of the old hotel. It swamped the gutters until they overflowed. It pooled below in great puddles, turning the land outside their little hotel room into a boiling, drenched morass.

Sarah listened to the rain in quiet astonishment. She remembered one when she was a young teen passing through the Midwest, she'd experienced rain. But that had been a light showering. She had never seen anything like a thunderstorm before…

"This is going to be a problem…" Colvin said, walking up to stand beside her.

"Why?" She asked, "We can just wait it out."

"What's the ground going to be like tomorrow?" the knight-captain asked, "It was soft enough. But now… if we try it with power armour, we'll get stuck…."

"We'll have to see what happens tomorrow." Sarah told him, "We'll sort it out then. But there's not much we can do about it right now."

"Right." Colvin nodded, "I'll take first watch. You get some sleep. Pek will wake you when it's your turn."

Sarah set herself up on the floor beside the bed, which Rothchild and Vallincourt had commandeered for the maps. She listened to the pounding rain and slowly drifted off to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Aqua Vitae 7

"If sir would sit still…" Wadsworth ordered, "It would make this much simpler."

"Try not to pull too much." Jason ordered as the robot's rough scissors butchered his hair.

"I am being as gentle as my programming will allow." The robot responded reproachfully, "You specifically requested a 'massacre' sir."

"It was exaggeration." Jason snapped, seeing his long blonde locks fall to the floor. He felt a sense of loss and defilement. But it was necessary. He couldn't walk up to the rivet city Talon contact while looking like the Lone Wanderer. And this was the easier step. He had already gotten Horace Pinkerton to do a facelift. His nose was considerably smaller, and the man had darkened his skin somewhat, leaving a face which was barely recognizable as Jason Howlett. Combined with the short brown waster hair Wadsworth was producing, and Jason suspected that no one who hadn't seen his face in person would have a hope of recognizing him. That was important. He couldn't look too confidant, either.

"All finished, Sir." The butler intoned, its tools retracting. It held out a small mirror "Do tell me if it's to your satisfaction."

Jason watched his own reflection. He looked much younger, barely out of his own teens. His hair had been shortened and perked up with grime and dirt in much the same way Sarah's had been after her stay in the Pitt. He watched the stranger in the mirror open its mouth and say: "I hope she'll recognize me."

"I'm sure she will be more than happy with the improvement, sir." Wadsworth assured him,"

"Improvement, huh?"

"Of course, sir." The robot said cheerfully.

"I'm going to Rivet City." Jason told it, "Get me a 10mm pistol, a Brahmin skin outfit, and some Aqua Vitae."

"As you wish, sir."

* * *

Lyons entered his quarters and shut the door. He turned and froze; a wastelander was standing in the middle of his study. A young man, dark-haired. He had a 10mm pistol on his hip, and was standing with a certain ease which told Elder Lyons that the man had been inside the citadel before.

"Who let you in here?" Lyons asked. The man was strangely familiar, which was the only reason Owyn hadn't yet shouted for security.

"It's me." The man said, perplexed. Then a look of realization dawned and he added, "Jason Howlett."

"You don't look like Jason Howlett." Elder Lyons said carefully.

"We can march down to the shooting range and I'll prove it." The young man said, giving Owyn a very familiar dry look, "Rothchild told me to hunt down the saboteurs, but I can't do it as the Lone Wanderer, so…" he gestured at himself.

"Effective…" Lyons admitted, "And is there something you need?"

He looked around the room hopefully, "I actually came to talk to Sarah… she's not here, is she?"

"No." Lyons said, relishing the syllable.

"Well where is she?"

"She is on an errand to retrieve another G.E.C.K. in order to repair Project Purity."

The Wanderer frowned, "Where'd you find another G.E.C.K.?"

"Point Lookout National Park."

Lyons was alarmed by just how quickly the color drained from the young man's face. Jason winced painfully, as if reliving some horrific experience, and stumbled backward, landing haphazardly in a chair, his hand in his messy black hair, rubbing a long, deep, vicious scar which had been previously hidden by his long, blonde hair.

"Point Lookout…" he whispered, staring at some inner vision.

Long ago, on the opposite side of the country, long before Sarah had ever come along, Lyons had once seen a soldier crack under the strain of battle. The man had simply dropped his weapon and collapse into a gibbering heap, ignoring the bullets and plasma rounds flying overhead. The man had been dragged off and set up in a small tent with a cup of hot tea. Lyons had tried to comfort him afterwards with hollow words about duty and recovery. The man had just examined the middle distance with a hollow, unblinking, thousand-mile stare.

The Lone Wanderer had the same look on his face. As if in a trance, he quietly rose from his seat and stumbled out.

* * *

Sarah awoke in the early pre-dawn hours to a faint song. She blinked once or twice, staring up at the rotten ceiling. On the bed beside her, Rothchild shifted comfortably and mumbled something about Liberty Prime. She sat up and looked at the window to find that Knight Pek had fallen fast asleep at his post. Every single other person in the room was asleep, some of them in very awkward positions.

She reached over and shook Rothchild. This action had no effect aside from making him snort and shift a little.

"Rothchild?" she hissed, shaking him harder.

Then she heard the song again, this time she was able to make out the words. It was being sung by a child, if the voice was any guess, except that the cheerful song had been warped and twisted by the child-like voice into something which sent chills down her spine:

_I love those dear hearts and gentle people…_

_Who live in my home toooown_

_Because those dear hearts and gentle people_

_Will never ever let you dooooown_

She crawled around the bed to Pek and gently pulled him from his seat. His body fell limply to the floor, still sound asleep. Light was shining through the makeshift curtain, but she didn't dare pull it aside. She bent down, pressed her hand up against it and tried to listen. The singer continued,

_They read the good book from Fri' till Monday_

_That's how the weekend goes_

_I've got a dream house I'll build there one day_

_With picket fence and raaaaamblin' rose_

A shadowed silhouette pressed against the other side of the glass. A child's silhouette, its tiny hand pressed against the surface, mirroring her own. With growing horror and disgust, she recognized the shape of the bulbous mask which had been placed over the child's head. In its other hand was a kitchen knife. The tip smacked into the glass and was slowly dragged down the surface, creating an unholy noise. The apparition was still singing the depraved song, its knife sliding down the glass; a metronome, keeping time and counting down.

_I feel so weeelllllcome each time that I return_

_That my happy heart keeps laughin' like a clooooown_

_I love the dear hearts and gentle people_

_Who live and love in my home toooooown_

Sarah shrieked and fell back against the bed, unable to tear her eyes from the window. She scrambled blindly for her laser pistol…

"Is everything alright, ma'am?" said a voice which clearly knew everything wasn't. Knight Pek was lying on his back in an awkward position, watching her with a cautious expression on his face. Colvin was leaning against the wall near the door, a deep and worried frown on his features.

"Sarah?" the Star-Paladin could hear Rothchild's calming voice. Sarah turned slightly. The old scribe and Vallincourt, his assistant, were pouring over old maps of Point Lookout. They clearly had been in the middle of a conversation.

Feeling a little more confidant, Sarah stood and ripped the curtain down, revealing the alien landscape of Point Lookout, beset by dense, concealing fog. She armed herself and wrenched the door open, ignoring the strange looks her comrades were giving her. The smell of salty, bone-chilling ocean air overpowered her nostrils. She stepped out into the courtyard, pistol at the ready, searching for the grotesque, bulbous mask. Colvin followed her, closing the door behind him.

"Are you alright, Sarah?"

"I'm fine." She murmured, scanning the landscape. There was no sign of the apparition, "I guess it was just a nightmare. I dreamt that something was outside the window, trying to get in. None of you would wake up. It was just a dream, though."

"Are you sure?"

She turned back, putting her pistol back in its holster, and froze, staring at the window in wide-eyed fear. Several deep vertical scratches was been scored in the glass, at approximately the right height.

Colvin crouched beside the window and ran his finger down them, "It's been scored pretty deep, Sarah." He said doubtfully, "the glass really should have cracked…" he turned back to look at her, "You seemed _really _scared. What did you see?"

"I don't know…" she muttered, "You believe in god, right?"

"Yes."

"Start praying." She ordered, "and wake up the others." She marched back into the hotel room and confronted Rothchild, "Do we have a destination yet?"

"There are several places in Point Lookout where we might find the G.E.C.K." the scribe said, "There are two military outposts in the area, as well as the Calvert Mansion."

"Calvert?"

"And old pre-war family." Vallincourt said, "They had a large amount of influence. They even had a presidential candidate. It's likely they would have known about the G.E.C.K."

"Well which one do we try first?" Sarah asked.

"The naval recruiting outpost is the closest." Rothchild said, "After that, the Calvert family mansion."

"What about the other outpost?"

"The Turtledove Detention Center." Rothchild sorted through his maps, "In the years leading up to the apocalypse, the American government moved suspect enemy agents there and detained them for questioning."

"Do you mean questioning? Or 'Questioning'?" Sarah asked, making small quotation marks in the air with her fingers.

"Would it matter?" the Scribe glanced up at her, "Anyone unlucky enough to possess a Chinese name was rounded up and shipped off to a concentration camp."

"So much for innocent until proven guilty…" Vallincourt muttered.

"It's common for the civil liberties to be revoked during times of national crisis. The Canadian government did the same thing to the Japanese segment of their own population during the second world war."

"It doesn't matter." Sarah commented, "Where's the camp?"

Rothchild looked down at his maps and his face fell, "its deep in the middle of the swamp."

Sarah stared at the map, remembering the foreboding darkness they had seen on their way in. She felt a cold dread seep in, "We'll check all other options first. I don't want to go into the bog unless I have to."

No word was said, but the entire group breathed a sigh of relief.

Colvin appeared at the door, "The others are up and have fallen in outside." He reported, "We're ready to go."

"Everyone fall in." Sarah ordered, "We'll check in with Madam Panada and find the recruiting outpost."

Sarah's heart lifted slightly as she stepped back onto the solid pavement of the seaside town. As the small expedition marched down the ruined road in the sickly green dawn, Sarah froze beside a garbage can, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Colvin walked up behind her and the two of them stared down at it.

"This is the one." He told her, "This is where I stuffed it."

Dreaded what she would find, Sarah reached down and pulled off the lid, revealing ancient candy wrappers and a few rotted pre-war books. Colvin stared down in to the empty receptacle, shock and fear sneaking into his face. He pointed forcefully into the dark space, "I shoved it down there, I swear to god. That's where I put it."

"…Yeah…" Sarah turned away from the garbage can and scrutinized the unending marshland, and the darkness of the forest. The hairs on the back of her neck told her that they were being watched.

"Do you know something, Sarah?" Colvin asked, watching her closely, "Something the rest of us don't?"

"No." she told him honestly, "but Jason had a mask like that. He seemed just as scared of it as I was."

"_The Wanderer_ was scared of it?"

Sarah nodded.

Colvin whistled and stared out across the moor.

Gallows materialized, making both of them jump. He stood, still as a sentinel statue, watching the moor, and showing it a determination equally as unyielding. With a shock, Sarah realized that the rest of the expedition had moved on.

"Rothchild is asking Madame Panada for directions." The sentinel intoned, "Stay with the group; this land hates us. Like a dog with fleas."

Colvin sighed, staring at the two of them, "It's just a bog." He said, trying to reassure all three of them, "Nothing more. Everything dies if you shoot it enough."

Sarah ignored him and turned to Gallows, "What happens when it decides to get rid of us?"

Gallows flicked the safety off his sniper rifle, "It'll meet me coming the other way."

* * *

Jason stood before the imposing building, staring at the walls, which seemed to press in on him, even standing in the parking lot outside the front door. The shadow it cast over the surrounding land was unnaturally dark. He could see the broken windows, portals to the inky blackness which awaited him inside.

Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Jason fancied he could hear the whispers of the abhorrent thing clutched under his arm. Memories, tormented nightmares of his brief time in the unforgiving, godforsaken swamps of Point Lookout, flowed through his mind, paralyzing him. His shoulder ached with the memory of the axe's impact. He could still feel the same splitting headache as he'd had after waking up outside the Sacred Bog.

The Ritual Site-

Jason shut his eyes tightly, trying to purge the images flashing through his mind.

He found a substitute and basked in the memory of Sarah, her lips on his own, the way she smiled her hand in his own…

Somewhere in Rivet City, the Talon Company recruiters were packing up to leave, but that didn't matter to him at all. If Sarah Lyons was to have any hope at all, then something else needed to be taken care of.

Jason unwrapped the book which had been clutched under his arm. He stared at the blank, plain cover of the Krivbeknih, with its sliced leather cover, and loose pages. He hadn't dared open it, but hadn't dared follow through on Marcella's request, either. Shame poured through him as he realized that it was fear for his own life which may have doomed Sarah Lyons and her expedition.

_Still_, he thought as he opened the door to the Dunwich Building and hefted his combat shotgun, _It's a bargaining chip…_

* * *

**Okay, I apologize AGAIN for the intolerably long wait. I'm going to do this in shorter chapters, simply bacause i find that when i have to write 3000+ words, i'd rather do something else. At the moment, it's just a little too much, so I'll do 2000+ and if you want this story done before newyears, you're giong to have to put up with it i guess.**

**As I stated before, this isn't quite the Point Lookout you remember. But I'm hoping that the pay-off will be awsome!**

**anyway, read, enjoy, and hopefully the next chapter will come a lot sooner.**


	8. Chapter 8

"You survived the night." Madame Panada observed, she sounded far too surprised for Sarah's comfort. The Star-Paladin resorted to silence.

"I suggest you take advantage of this land's benevolence, and leave." The shopkeeper proclaimed.

"Not until we've got what we came for." Sarah replied coolly, glancing at Colvin. The Knight-Captain shrugged unhappily; the expedition's morale was low enough already, "Now where is the naval recruiting office?"

The shopkeeper said, "I have already told your associates. If you insist upon risking your lives yet another night, I would suggest staying in the lighthouse. It will be easier to defend when the darkness comes knocking at your door…"

"About that," Sarah leaned forward, "What do you know about the Pint-Sized Slasher?"

Madame Panada gave her a long, piercing stare, "What have you seen?"

"What do you know?" Sarah asked again.

The woman's had floated down and disappeared behind the counter. Sarah heard the shuffling of many papers, and then the hand came back up again, carrying an old, faded pre-war newspaper.

Sarah took it and opened it, looking for the article in question. She found it:

_By Walter "Street Beat" Munroe  
Capital Post Staff Writer_

What American child alive hasn't heard the story of the Pint-Sized Slasher, that diminutive demon in a clown mask who stalks and slashes the innocent residents of supposedly safe suburbia? It's just one of the many folk stories parents use to scare their youngsters into behaving themselves. Or is it?

According to Germantown police chief Joseph Field, the Pint-Sized Slasher may be more real than many people would like to admit. "After reviewing the autopsy results of the Linden Street slayings, we have confirmed that the force and direction of every knife wound are consistent with an attack from a much smaller assailant. A child, to be precise."

Add to the sinister forensic findings this statement from Christopher Atkinson, the one surviving victim of the adolescent assassin, and it becomes clear that the Pint-Sized Slasher does indeed walk among us: "The clown! The clown! He's going to kill us all, do you understand me? He stabbed my brother Shaun right in the face! He killed my brother! The little clown!"

But assuming the Pint-Sized Slasher is indeed a real, tangible threat to the peace loving residents of D.C. suburbia, one question remains: why? What could possible motivate a child to don a clown mask and murder innocent people in cold blood? We may never know. At least not until the miniature maniac is brought to justice. Until then, all we can do is lock our doors, kiss our children goodnight - and pray they live to see morning.

Sarah re-read it several times and set it down on the counter. She took a deep breath and sighed, chewing her lip. Eventually she turned to the expedition and shouted "Artemis, get us packed and ready to move!" her voice was a little harsher than necessary, but she didn't care. After making sure that the expedition was busy packing, she turned back to Panada, "So I'm being chased by a two-hundred year-old ghost child in a clown mask?"

Panada shook her head, giving Sarah a look of pity, as one might watch a terminally wounded Brahmin being put down, "No. That is merely what you see."

* * *

Searching the Naval recruiting center took all of five minutes. Sarah, in the interests of morale, had elected to keep watch outside the door while the team went in to search. As she gazed upon the forsaken bog, she pondered Panada's words. The Pint-Sized Slasher…

What had the woman meant by 'that's what you see'? It didn't make sense; Sarah would have seen what was there…

It had been a dream, she was sure. The land was just getting on her nerves. That was all.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Knight Taylor, who stood watch beside her. He was rocking back and forth on his heels, staring into the distance with a faint smile. The young man was humming a tune which Sarah recognized with a sinking feeling. Her fears were confirmed when he muttered the words 'They read the good book from fri' till Monday, that's how the weekend goes…'

"Taylor?" she prompted gently, watching his smile spread slowly into a grin.

The man froze, and then sprang into action. He grinned at her, "Hi."

"How are you?" she asked, probing.

"Fine." He went back to staring out at the bleak, shrouded wetlands.

"Where'd you get that song?" Sarah asked.

The Knight shrugged, "I must've heard it somewhere. Three-Dog probably played it. It really sticks in your head, though."

The door opened and Rothchild came out, his expression telling Sarah all she needed to know. He nodded to her and gathered himself together, pulling out another map. As he worked, the rest of the expedition filed out, the scribes looking more dejected than ever. Gallows took up a watchful pose, facing the lurid forest.

The Scribe opened his map, twisted it around a few times to get his bearings, and then pointed along the road.

"Calvert mansion is just up that way." he said, "And if it's not there, we'll try the Detention camp."

"Let's get moving!" Sarah barked, "We're wasting daylight."

She turned back to Gallows, who hadn't moved a muscle. She knew him well enough to understand the silent signal he was sending her.

"What do you see?" she asked quietly.

"We're being watched." He replied, "One man, trees, far left copse."

Sarah squinted, but couldn't make out any shapes in the coils of mist. Far off in the distance, a crow began to caw.

"What did he look like?"

"Big." The scout reported.

Sarah sighed, "Keep a weather eye out."

The scout nodded.

* * *

Sergeant Jackrum sat down at the bar, staring into the amber liquid. The glass was dirty, but he didn't especially care. The cold, rusted metallic walls of the Muddy Rudder Bar pressed in upon him. A bent cigarette hung loosely from the notch between his first and second fingers. Smoke curled from the smoldering end and faded into the pale blue cloud which concealed the ceiling.

Sergeant… It was an honorific title, earned through the respect and prominence that years of experience provided. Sergeant Jackrum. The survivor. The only Talon Company mercenary over the age of forty. John Rumsfeld. Jackrum.

He scratched his graying beard, sending flakes of some indefinable substance drifting down to rest on the surface of the bar. It was immediately swept away by a wet rag. Belle Bonny clicked her tongue in disapproval and moved off to clean some glasses.

The scratchy, faded voice of the First Lady of Song crackled over Belle Bonny's radio, _into each life, some rain must fall…but too much is falling in mine…_

Jackrum took a long drag from his cigarette and let the smoke settle in his lungs before he exhaled and blew it presumptuously onto the brushed surface, ignoring the barkeep's glare. He swilled the amber liquid and took another swig, draining the glass and piling it with the others. A new one was placed in front of him, full just short of the brim.

"You're running up quite a tab, Mister Jackrum."

The merc glanced over at the long assembly of dirty glasses. One, two, three, four… five… fuck it.

The sight of the greenhorn's head tearing off his body played itself again on Jackrum's inner eye, slowed so that he could witness it in all its glory. The recruit's face rippling as the railroad spike entered his temple, the eyes widening slightly reflexively, spasms wracking the face as the cold metal pushed certain buttons within the brain itself. Then the flesh beginning to stretch and tear, tiny beads of blood forming along the neck, a dotted line saying 'cut here'

Jackrum had seen a lot of horrific things during his twenty-five years of service (had it really been that long?), but for some reason, the sight of that life uselessly thrown away had hit him harder than most.

It was the damned Wanderer which did it. The man walked around supposedly fixing the wasteland, but the only thing Jackrum had ever seen the man do was kill. Death and destruction were constant companions, and the Wanderer welcomed them.

Railroad spikes? What kind of a man used a gun which shot railroad spikes? What did that say about him and his methods? What did it say about his opinion of his opponents? _And he had sent them fucking tip_! The Wanderer had set up the entire thing, killed four good hard-working mercenaries so that he could hold a quick five-minute conversation with Jackrum about the purifier.

Jackrum had been thinking the incident over in his mind, letting his own anger, and the drink form a hard brick of rage in his stomach. The Wanderer set the whole thing up so he could have the fun, the _satisfaction_, of hunting and killing Talon Company mercenaries. That sick fuck.

He glanced over his shoulder. Young Spadge and Trinnie, his young lady, were a lip-locked bundle of elbows and legs. The young woman had a bucket sitting beside her and would surface occasionally to vomit into it. Neither of them seemed to mind.

Jackrum took another drag on his cigarette, expelling the foul smoke in a great billowing cloud. Beside him, a young man with disheveled black hair took a seat. Jackrum turned unsteadily to examine him. The boy was just out of his teen years, a young man not even old enough to grow a proper beard.

"Hi," he said in a youthful voice, "I'm here to join the Talon Company."

"That ship has sailed." Jackrum muttered, "Two days ago, I was a recruiter." He shrugged, "Today I'm a drunkard. Believe me; you caught the good day."

"But I need the money."

Jackrum turned and stared into the young man's soulful, innocent blue eyes. Because he was Sergeant Jackrum, he dug a little deeper and encountered a steel wall. The young man was a liar. A damned good one, but Jackrum was better. He chuckled, "Kid, whatever you're running from, Talon Company ain't the place to set up shop. If you're worth money, we'll just as soon sell you out as recruit you."

"I just need the money, and I'm willing to fight."

"Name?"

"Fletcher."

The end of Jackrum's cigarette sizzled, "_Real_ name?"

"Fletcher."

"Bullshit." Jackrum took a sip from his glass, "I'm drunk, not stupid. If I can't even trust you to tell me your real name, do you think I'd trust you with a gun?"

The young man thought for a moment, but Jackrum's expression was unyielding.

"Howlett, Jason."

"Wasn't so hard, was it? Jonathon Rumsfeld," Jackrum shook his hand, "Call me Jackrum. Or Sarge. What are you running from?"

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies." The kid replied.

Jackrum gave him the Long Stare. The kid returned it blankly. He was dressed in a simple Brahmin skin outfit with a 10mm pistol. He wasn't dressed like a waster, though the disguise was near perfect, and would have fooled most. Jackrum had been around far too long to fall for it. The kid was dressed as someone who wanted to look like a Wastelander. He had done too good a job. Too much grime, a little too tanned. People out here had standards. They may have had to eat their meals off of floors, but they'd be damned if those floors weren't absolutely fucking spotless. The same went for their clothes. The garments might be old and worn, but by god they were kept as clean as possible. The kid was dressed as a stereotype.

"Kid," said Jackrum, "I've been a Merc longer than you've been alive. The only reason I've lasted this long is because I listen to my gut. Right now, my gut is telling me that you're nothing but trouble. So fuck off."

"I though you needed recruits." The kid said. Jackrum smiled to himself, _Dead giveaway, Sonny Jim._ John Rumsfeld had been recruiting mercs for fifteen years. Any young man macho enough to want join up would have been bristling with outrage at being told to 'Fuck Off', and challenging him to a fistfight. They would have paid dearly for it, too. Experience beat out youth nine times out of ten.

He heard the sound of loud footsteps and sighed, watching the line of other recruiters wind its way down the rickety steel steps.

The man in the lead couldn't have been a day over thirty. His armour was shabby, and the way he stumbled towards the two of them told Jackrum that he had been doing more than recruiting at Vera Weatherly's.

On the top of the stairs, Jackrum could make out the silent shapes of armed rivet city security guard, watching the group of mercs closely.

Talon Company and Rivet City Security had established a fragile truce. Unarmed mercs, when escorted by security guards, were allowed to trade and spend caps in the city's market and watering holes. The extra trade helped solidify Rivet City's hold as the dominant economic power in the wastes, and the mercs could enjoy booze and other privileges in relative safety.

The man stumbled over nad planted himself on a chair nearby, "Heeeey, Jackrum, y'know what you should drink?"

"Rum?" Jackrum ventured dryly.

The man looked crestfallen, but he rallied, and swayed, magnificently, "S' right. Because then it'd be Jacrum's Rum. Rum…" he murmured the word several times and focused on the kid, "Who're you?"

"Fletcher." The kid said, clearly banking on the newcomer's drunken stupidity, and daring Jackrum to intervene.

"S' a great name!" the drunken merc declared jovially, "Have you ever considered joinging the Talon Company, Fletcher?"

"As a matter of fact, I have." The kid replied, "but mister Jackrum doesn't want me to join."

"I don't know why not…" the merc reasoned, grinning slowly, "Afterall, he lost the last batch to the Lone wanderer, didn't he?"

Jackrum's fingers twitched, "You want him, you sign the papers. Or put an 'X' down, you know, whatever you can manage." He pulled out a bag of caps, counted off the correct amount, plus a modest tip, and slid the pile down the bar to Belle Bonny. Then he wlked up the stairs and found his way to the common room where he decided to take a nap. In the morning, he had some inquires to make; Jason Howlett was not a common name.


	9. Chapter 9

Fingers rustled in Jackrum's money purse. Unfortunately for the thief, the veteran Merc was a light sleeper, a useful quality for someone who spent his life wandering the wastes. His hand struck like a cobra and caught the culprit by the front of his shirt.

Jackrum opened his eyes and looked at the boy, who was struggling in the forlorn hope of loosening the Merc's iron grip. The veteran rose to a sitting position and examined the urchin, "What's your name, kid?"

"James!" the child said defiantly, pulling at Jackrum's arm. He hadn't yet realized the effort was futile.

The veteran held out a hand, "My money."

"I don't-"

Jackrum lifted the kid clear into the air, surprised at just how light the young one actually was. With his shoes dangling a foot off the ground, the child considered his position, then reluctantly produced five bottlecaps and laid them in Jackrum's palm. The Sergeant's hand remained outstretched, "And the rest of it?"

From various horrible pockets, the child produced another ten caps. Jackrum set him down, still keeping a tight hold on the child's shirt. The sergeant considered his new acquaintance, "You're good, kid. Fast. Anyone who manages to dip that far into my wallet without waking me up deserves to keep the extra half-dozen caps he has hidden in his coat."

The child stared at Jackrum in astonishment.

"Don't deny it," the merc warned, "My name is Jackrum. I know every trick in the book. If you try the old dippitydoodah on me again, I'll tan your ass until you start shitting blood. Do you understand me?"

The child nodded, terrified.

"Good." Jackrum let him go, "Use that cash to buy yourself a meal. Looks say you haven't eaten properly in what, four days?"

The grimy urchin nodded. It was probably closer to six.

Jackrum heard a harsh woman shouting, "James? James? Where are you ya little shit?"

The enormous iron door opened and said woman stepped through, her face diverting Jackrum down memory lane. What had it been? Ten years? Fifteen? She was older now, and what once had been a pretty face, time, cigarette smoke, and alcohol, had ruined.

"There you are!" the woman said as Jackrum let the pickpocket go. He noticed that the child did not run to his mother, but instead ran to the corner furthest away from her. So…Tammy abused more than alcohol these days…

The woman caught sight of him and put her hands on her hips, a false look of joy on her face, "Jonathon Rumsfeld," She said, "I always wondered when you'd come crawling back."

"People call me 'Jackrum' now." The merc told her, lighting a cigarette. He leaned back against the cold metal wall, letting the temperature shock wake him up further.

"I don't' care," she told him in a tone of sarcastic sweetness, "You'll always be 'Fuckface' to me. As in 'Fuckface, where's my money?'."

"That was ten years ago." Jackrum replied, "Give it up."

"Thirteen, to be exact!" she said, pointing at the child, who had curled up in the corner.

"Oh, shut up you stupid drunken whore!" Jackrum motioned at the kid with his cigarette, "I remember how you were back then. Every single man on this ship coulda bin his father. You're just lookin' to pin him on someone. An' it ain't me."

"How do you know?" the woman demanded angrily.

"Cos you took it in the mouth, remember?"

"Fuck you!

"And ya swallowed it, too." He rose and stretched, feeling his back crack.

Tammy Hargrave was moving towards him at high speed. He blocked her clumsy slap and responded with one of his own which sent her reeling to the floor. She glared up at him, nursing the new welt on her cheek.

"I'm a true believer in Equality." Jackrum said, scratching himself, "If you try to hit me, I'll hit you back, whether you're a man, or a woman, it doesn't matter to me."

"Fuckface!" she spat, "I'll call Rivet City Security!"

"Yeah?" Jackrum asked, sizing her up, "I spent almost a hundred caps at the Muddy Rudder last night, and that ain't half of what I brought with me. Reckon your bar tab is longer than a deathclaw's tail. I know Rivet City Security, and they side with those who have the money to bribe'em. Now if you'd excuse me, I have a _Job _to do. Maybe you should get one. Then your kid wouldn't have to steal for you."

"I loved you once!" the woman shouted, a last ditch attempt to elicit some sympathy.

Jackrum stepped out the door, saying: "Only because I had the money to buy you Jet."

As he walked away, he heard Tammy begin to scream at her son.

_Wasteland life…_ he thought sullenly.

* * *

Jackrum bought himself breakfast at Gary's Galley, a cantina situated at the far end of the Rivet City marketplace, formerly the beached aircraft carrier's hanger. He ate a dry Mirelurk cake along with a tepid, disgusting Nuka-Cola and a bottle of purified water. He bought a dozen more bottles for the trip, and sidled out the front door of Rivet city.

The other two Talon Company recruiters had already arrived, and were busy setting their new charges in a line. Behind them was a pile of knapsacks, full of supplies. A stack of assault rifles was sitting beside it. The recruits were gathered in a loose gaggle. Young Spadge was at the far end, an arm around his woman's waist. She herself looked half dead, having been kept up for far too long and drinking far too much. But Jackrum's eyes were fixed on a young, black-haired recruit, the most lucid of the lot. The kid kept glancing down the beach at a nearby supermutant camp. Jackrum could see the heavy green shapes moving about between the giant twisted steel defenses.

The Sergeant leaned against the wall next to a Rivet City guard and watched the recruiters set to work organizing the party.

"Morning Joey." He muttered.

"Morning Jackrum." The Guard replied, "Have a good time?"

"Mostly." Jackrum shrugged. After a moment he said, "I slapped Tammy Hargrave."

The Guard shrugged, "Noone likes her. Noone'll care. Besides, she beats her kid."

A surge of guilt flowed through Jackrum's system. He felt a small desire to go back and find the bitch, but resisted, reminding himself that it wasn't his business.

Instead he focused his attention on the suspicious recruit, "Have you ever heard the name Jason Howlett?" he asked.

"Nope." The guard replied, "Who is he?"

"That's just it." Jackrum told him, "I don't know. I'm calling in the favor you owe me."

"I can dig around in the archives and the city's residents list, but if he ain't there…" the guard shrugged.

"Just try."

"I will."

They watched as one of the recruiters began yelling at his new charges, trying to whip them into shape for the long journey back to fort bannister. 'Fletcher' seemed almost relaxed, obeying the given orders and completely ignoring the drill sergeant's tone of voice. Jackrum squinted as he noticed the kid's left hand. It was almost pure white. He propelled himself off the wall and walked along the drawbridge. The drill sergeant, misinterpreting his actions, shouted, "And now Sergeant Jackrum'll give you a few words.

Jackrum glowered at the man, but turned to the ragged conscripts and examined them. Fletcher aside, they were the usual motley crew of drunkards, waifs, strays, and young men with far too much testosterone for their own damn good health. Most of them were swaying in the morning sun, suffering from hangovers. The rest looked as if they hadn't reached the hangover stage yet, having put the bottle down just ten minutes before being marched out. Jackrum ran his eyes along their tired, bedraggled ranks (a dozen in total) and wondered how many were going to live to see their next birthdays.

"It's a good life," he said, "If you survive. Keep your head down, listen to the more experienced guys, and follow orders. That's no guarantee, but it will increase your chances. Everyone say yes Sarge."

The assembled mob mumbled the phrase. Down at the end of the line, his arm still around his woman, Spadge vomited, the ugly chunk-filled yellow sludge dripping through the holes in the tread of the bridge and splashing in the shallow water far below.

Jackrum ignored him, lighting a cigarette, "Listen up!" he ordered, making a few ears perk, "I don't want to hear about your momma, your girl, your kid sister, your kid brother, growing up in Rivet city or wherever you came from… don't show me any pictures, don't tell me your first name. I don't want to hear how many supermutants you think you're going to kill, or what you plan to do after you finish up with us. Above all, don't tell me that it's too quiet." He puffed his cigarette and blew the smoke out over their heads, "If there's one thing I've learned about being a Merc, it's that it can never be too quiet. My name's Jackrum. Most of you will be dead by next week, and I don't feel like getting to know you."

Speech made, he was finally able to focus his attention Fletcher's hand. He walked over and stood in front of the conscript, who gazed back blankly. Jackrum's gaze traveled down to the kid's chalk-white hand. His fingers were very dark, calloused, and worn, obviously used to hard work. But the palm and the back of the hand, stretching all the way up into the sleeve, were covered in the lightest skin Jackrum had ever seen. IT looked as if it had never touched true sunlight. He grabbed the hand and pulled the sleeve up revealing the alabaster skin going all the way up to the kid's elbow.

Jackrum looked at him sharply, "The only thing I've seen which would leave a tan like that is some very fine lingerie."

"I do indulge occasionally…" the kid said, "…_Sarge_."

Some of the more alert members of the crowd laughed. Someone wolf-whistled. Jackrum and Fletcher glared at each other. The veteran had originally thought the kid to be very young, but at this distance, he began to notice things: the kid's face was covered in small nicks and scars. His stubble was much fuller than Jackrum had originally thought. In the kid's blue eyes, concealed behind the innocent look, was that steel wall. There were other signs which the old sergeant recognized; the kid had killed before, and grown used to it, too. Jackrum could tell by the kid's build that he was also used to hard travel and a hard diet.

Jackrum stepped back and pointed at the pile of knapsacks, "Pick up a bag, Mister Fletcher."

The kid obeyed, hefting the pack, which was full of water, beans, and ammunition. Heavy; At least twenty pounds. Jackrum circled, watching the kid's expression. Fletcher seemed completely unconcerned.

"Spadge over there is not in any shape to carry his supplies." Jackrum told the conscript, "Pick up another pack."

The kid obeyed, still unconcerned. Jackrum turned to the group at large, "Does anyone else not want to carry their shit?"

The smallest conscript in the division raised a cautious hand. Jackrum turned back to Fletcher, "Pick up another pack, son."

The kid obeyed, grunting slightly. A few members of the squad were wincing in sympathy. Jackrum walked over to the stack of assault rifles and pulled out three. He hung them over Fletcher's shoulder.

"Let's see…" he said, doing some mental calculations, "That's three packs, at fifteen pounds a pack." His lips moved as he silently worked through the equation. He was quite proud of his ability to do 'sums' as the old woman who had taught him called it.

"Forty-five pounds, Sarge." Fletcher told him, prompting some laughter among the ranks.

"And the rifles at seven pounds each?"

"Sixty-six." The kid answered.

"Sixty-six pounds and you're still being a smart-ass." Jackrum said to the group at large. The other recruiters watched in amusement, "Pick up another pack and another rifle, Mister Fletcher."

At this point, the kid began to strain visibly as he bent down and retrieved the items.

"Gods…you're a pack mule." Jackrum turned to the division, "We have a long haul ahead of us." He began to pass out the bottles of water he had bought from Gary's Galley, "Take a drink and save the rest. Everyone pick up something, the bigger ones take a pack, the smaller ones, take a rifle. The biggest take both. Do it!"

The group moved towards the piles and began sorting through the supplies.

One of the recruiters came up to him. Jackrum recalled the man from the previous night. A peevish little runt named Hakeswill, "Two more teams are meeting us at the anchorage memorial. They want this group brought in intact. The last shipment got tagged by muties."

"Alright," Jackrum said, "Get'em moving."

Glanced at the group and spotted Spadge, who was leaning on his girlfriend for support. Jackrum marched over and surveyed the pair of them. He addressed the girl first, as she seemed the more capable of answering, "You coming with us all the way to fort bannister?"

She gave him a toothy grin, and then burst into a fit of giggles. Spadge started laughing too, for no apparent reason. Jackrum ripped them apart and cuffed his protégé. This only made the girl laugh so hard she had to turn away. Jackrum, fed up, gave her a kick in the bum which sent her sprawling across the surface of the bridge like a ragdoll, a half-used Jet inhaler flying from her pocket. Joey the security guard came forward to retrieve her. As the man in combat armour lead the girl away, Jackrum looked back to Spadge, who was giving him a half-lidded idiot grin.

"You're baked, aren't you?" the veteran asked.

"You bet Sarge!"

"Jet?"

"Uh-huh."

"I think you need a cold shower." Jackrum said.

"Might help, Sarge." Spadge agreed, still giggling. His voice faltered as he realized what his sergeant meant. Jackrum nodded, and then pushed him over the railing and into the ice-cold water below.

"Catch up when you can!" he ordered at the figure who was dogpaddling desperately towards the shore, shouting curses.

* * *

Calvert mansion was a disheartening sight. An area of square foundation upon which had been piled large mounds of rubbish and detritus. Bits of wood and stone, some white planking which had obviously been the outer walls of the house, were all that was left of the family's former home.

Colvin crouched beside one particularly large mound and examined the edge of the wood, "Charred." He told them.

Sarah shut her eyes tightly, and then cleared her thoughts. She refused to believe that the G.E.C.K. had been in there when the building had gone up. That wasn't an option. IT was somewhere in Point Lookout, and they were going to find it!

"Spread out!" she ordered, "Look for advanced technology, maps, documents, or something else which might tell us where the G.E.C.K. is."

The scribes and soldiers fanned out amongst the ruins, picking through the debris. Those in power armour were lifting the larger chunks of wood out of the way, allowing the scribes access to whatever was underneath. It was dirty work. The constant fog and oceanic moisture had resulted in rot and bugs taking refuge in the rubbish. Small land-crabs would snap at exposed fingers, though no one who'd been at the wrong end of a mirelurk attack was really bothered by it.

Sarah watched them for a while, then wandered over to Gallows, who was once again standing stock still, staring into the foreboding forest.

"Report." She ordered quietly.

"It's still in the trees," Gallows passed her the sniper rifle, "One O'clock from that old tree, edge of the forest."

Sarah followed his instructions and peered into the murky depths of the thick growth. She could make out a very faint light in the distance, shining through the tree branches. An enormous bloated shape blocked the light for just a moment, and then disappeared. Sarah squinted and searched the treeline for it, but the creature, whatever it was, had gone.

"There are also Mirelurks on the shoreline." Gallows said, pulling the rifle away, "Giant ones."

Sarah glanced at the shoreline and did indeed spot the crab-like bipedal shapes. These ones were about one-third larger than the capital wasteland mirelurks. They also differed in their coloring. Whereas the mirelurks Sarah was used to dealing with had pale, bleached shells, these giant possessed dark green shells and significantly larger pincers.

"Add to that, the sun, and we're in real trouble." Gallows observed.

"The sun?" Sarah squinted up into the pale, colorless sky at the faint yellow glow.

"How many hours has it been since we woke up?" The Scout asked.

"Two. Three tops." Sarah guessed, glancing at the forest, hoping for a glimpse of the watcher.

"Then why is it already setting?" Gallows demanded. He pointed in the direction of his own faint shadow, "That way is east, the sun is on the west side and falling."

She looked up at the sky, and down at her own shadow. It took her a moment to get her bearings, but once she did, Sarah felt the deep, subtle and consuming fear grab hold of her. "How?" she choked, "How could the sun move?"

Gallows held a finger up against his helmet's filter, and she understood; to point it out to the expedition could only spell disaster.

"Find Shelter." He said.

"We'll head back to the hotel after we're done here." She decided.

Gallows shook his head, "The walls are as soft and flimsy as toilet paper. We need a defensible position for when they come."

"They?"

"The watchers." The scout told her, "That forest is full of them."

A voice cried out from the search party. Sarah turned, glad of the distraction, and hurried over to Colvin, who was crouched in front of a hatchway. She felt a small amount of excitement as the Knight-Captain opened it. Artemis went down first and shouted the all clear. Sarah herself clambered down the ladder and found herself in a small cramped space loaded with supplies. Television sets with blank screens had been piled all over.

"It's a survival shelter." Artemis told her as the rest of the expedition gazed down through the hatch.

A computer had been placed on a small desk. Sarah called for Rothchild and the scribe climbed gingerly down the ladder.

"Do you se anything which looks like a G.E.C.K.?" Sarah asked as the Scribe examined the room. Rothchild shook his head. He edged past her bulky, power-armoured form and began leafing through the papers on the top of the desk. He pulled out a map and held it up to the faint light for Sarah to see. The map itself was an old, prewar tourist guide to Point Lookout. Recently someone had scratched over it in pencil. Neat straight lines formed a giant triangle. Several calculations had been written beside it. The entire thing looked like gibberish to Sarah, but Rothchild was smiling.

"It's triangulation!" he said excitedly. Sarah exchanged a bewildered glance with Artemis.

"You pick three points which you know the location of, and use geometry to discern a fourth!" Rothchild grinned and stared down at the ancient map, "Whoever did this was quite clever, and looking for something very specific."

"Where was this person trying to find?"

"The lighthouse, by the looks of it." The Scribe said, engrossed in the little scrap of paper.

"Because that one's just so hard to see." Artemis observed sourly.

"Someone was interested in it," Sarah said, "I want to know why. Lets move."

* * *

**I know Jackrum's first scene may have seemed really harsh, and really dark, but this story is rated Mature for a reason.**

**I love writing Jackrum. He's more fun than Sarah.**

**The observant will realize that the map Rothchild found was Desmond figuring out where Calvert was hiding.**

**And a mystery has been solved: I found out why I see the supermutants as orange. This one really shocked me: apparently I'm red/green colorblind. I'm not entirely sure whether I really believe it either, but I took the test http:/ and yeah...**

**Anyway yeah, I don't see the green in the supermutants' hides because I can't see the green. All I see is the orange and man, is it bright. Damned useful, too. Kinda like a permanent version of Boone's Spotter perk.**


	10. Chapter 10

The conscripts were halfway to the Anchorage Memorial. Jackrum marched sullenly along the broken highway. To either side, great crumbling ruins of city towers reached for the sky. Rebar and broken concrete dotted the road. Slung across the Sergeant's back was the comforting weight of a Chinese assault rifle. Jackrum had owned the thing for over eight years, and kept it in excellent repair.

Behind the old veteran, the group of conscripts were walking and talking happily. The subject of their conversations didn't particularly interest Jackrum. And he knew what they'd be in any case: macho descriptions of fights, adventures (both their own and the Wanderer's), their plans for their commission money, sexual conquests, and the conflict between the supermutants and the brotherhood of steel. If he were younger, he would have joined in. What he'd learned, mostly through experience, was the fact that very rarely did they possess any real knowledge of the conversation topics; questioning why the brotherhood was having any trouble at all made sense until one was trapped behind a twisted piece of concrete as three masters and an overlord were busily chipping it away with miniguns. Then the Brotherhood's troubles suddenly began to make sense. All the mercs who'd been caught in that trap never questioned the Brotherhood again. And as for the sexual conquests… the whole experience was far more mundane than anything the sick and twisted mind of a young man could dream up. Those who boasted the most, actually got the least.

Jackrum looked backwards and spotted mister 'Fletcher' at the end of the line, bent slightly by the weight of the packs on his back. The young man was taking the punishment stoically, and silently. Instead of taking part in the conversation, his efforts seemed more focused on watching the ruins in the same way that Jackrum was doing. The old sergeant slowed his pace, allowing the group to pass him until he was walking side by side with the kid, both of them watching the shadows of the buildings. The veteran wasn't entirely sure the young man knew that he was doing it. Watching and cataloguing the colors and shapes of the wasteland became second nature to those who wandered it frequently, and the kid's mind had very obviously gone on autopilot. Jackrum's approach brought him back, and he watched the sergeant warily.

"How is it going, 'Fletcher'?" Jackrum asked, lighting a cigarette.

"Can't complain." The kid shrugged.

Jackrum took a drag and puffed out a smoke ring. He examined the liar carefully, taking in the black, mussed hair. "Where were you born, kid?"

"En route," Came the quiet answer.

"From where to where?"

"Point A, Point B. But I'm pretty sure my parents were from the commonwealth if that's any help…"

"Commonwealth, huh?"

"That's right."

"You're not very good at it, you know."

"Good at what, Sarge?"

"Keeping this whole charade going."

"Charade, Sarge?"

"Don't play the fool, boy. I've been on both ends of that one."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sarge."

"Do I call you Howlett, or Fletcher?"

"Everyone calls me Fletcher." The young man replied.

"Only because they think it's what you're called."

"Funny how that works, isn't it sarge?" the kid asked as they trudged down the dirty street.

Jackrum continued to watch him, "You know what I think?"

"Nope."

"I think you're brotherhood."

This time it was the conscript's turn to give the veteran a sharp look, "What makes you say that, Sarge?"

"You're used to travel, and combat. And it's just in your eyes." Jackrum shrugged, "My first guess was that you were the Lone Wanderer, but a few things don't match up there."

"Like what? The face?"

"People can change their faces." Jackrum told him, glancing at the boy's scalp, "And their hair color. It takes caps and a damned good doc, but it can be done. That tan line screams 'Pipboy' so bad you can hear it for miles. But no, you aren't the Lone Wanderer because he wouldn't bother infiltrating us. We're not important enough for that. Anything he wanted from us, he could walk into Fort Bannister and take. And he could do it without any of us spotting him. Besides, he already interrogated me and my squad, after killing half of us. I told him what I knew, and he left us alone."

"And say I _was_ the Lone Wanderer?" the young man asked carefully.

Jackrum felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. _Be careful! _They were telling him. He said, "If you were, there's not much I could do about it. It'd be suicidal to try anything, and I happen to like my skin enough to want to stay on the inside of it. Look, so long as I don't get caught up in it, I don't much care what he does, or what you do, to the Talon Company. It's my meal ticket. That's it. And I have other options."

The boy nodded silently, staring into the ruins. He slowed to a halt, staring into one of the windows. Jackrum followed his gaze and caught a flash of orange nad the glint of gunmetal.

"Fuck!" he breathed. The kid was already moving. He pulled out an assault rifle, and began firing over the heads of the other recruits, making them panic and dash for the end of the street. A trail of smoke followed a rocket which had flown out of an upper window and impacted where the recruits had been not moments before. The gunfire had panicked them and caused them to run, saving their lives, but leaving Jackrum and Fletcher alone in the ruins.

The air began to hiss and whine as the windows all around them filled with orange and green Supermutants. Jackrum fought down his shock at the speed of the ambush and bolted for cover: a set of old concrete dividers. A mutant got a bead on him, and chunks of asphalt chased him the last few feet as he dove over the side of the concrete cover and untangled his Chinese assault rifle. He leaned out slightly, trying to figure out what the hell had happened to the conscripts.

Jackrum watched the group scatter as the mutants above opened fire with assault rifles. The more alert mercenaries fired back. And within seconds the entire area was filled with gunsmoke. Jackrum spotted a supermutant with a hunting rifle peeking out of a second story window. He raised his own assault rifle, steadying it against the edge of the concrete divider, and opened fire, watching the little puffs of shrapnel crawl across the window, driving the monster back into the shadows A second abomination spotted him and began to pepper the area with 5.56mm rounds. Jack sat back in his cover, itching for a cigarette, wincing at the chips of concrete landing around him. He rolled onto his stomach and crawled along the line of dividers until he reached the edge. A supermutant with a hunting rifle was peeking out of the window of a bombed out building. The veteran set its neck in his sights and pulled the trigger. He was rewarded with a shower of red as the supermutant's brains splattered on the window frame.

More bullets spattered down at him and he crawled back. He leaned against the divider, pulled out a cigarette, and struck a match on the barricade. He took a few puffs to calm his nerves, then tried to think. A grenade landed beside him and he tossed it back over the barricade, not caring where it landed.

Down the street, the recruiters had formed the terrified recruits into a solid base of fire, and were slowly moving away from the ambush zone. Straight ahead of him, an empty building sat invitingly. The only thing stopping him from a frantic dash to safety was the wall of lead slowly chewing away his cover. A bullet ricocheted in the narrow space between two dividers and took the end off of his cigarette.

There was a sudden thud and Fletcher landed beside him. The kid was bleeding in a dozen places, but still functional, and grinning, "Times like this makes you feel alive, eh Sarge?"

"Don't be a fucking idiot!" Jackrum snarled, pulling the kid's smoking gun barrel towards him. The veteran pressed the shredded end of his cigarette against the heat of the barrel and took another experimental puff, "Where the hell have you been?"

Fletcher gestured freely at the empty silent buildings in front of them. Behind them, the mutants kept up a continuous stream of bullets.

"Making sure they didn't fire at you from this side." The kid explained, reloading.

Jackrum leaned out of cover and spat a dozen rounds at an orange silhouette. Something else began firing at him from further down the street. The old Sergeant flashed his middle finger at it and kept shooting, taking down another supermutant before he ducked back behind cover.

The kid motioned for him to stop, and sat silently, eyes shut, listening to the noise of the battle. Eventually he opened his eyes and nodded, "Sixteen supermutants. Six assault rifles, one Chinese assault rifle, a minigun, the rest have hunting rifles. Assault rifles on second and third floors, hunting rifles on first floor." He frowned, "Organized."

They both ducked as a missile passed inches over their heads and hit the wall in front of them, blowing a giant hole in it. Dust billowed from the fresh hole, obscuring the entire battlefield.

"…And the one with the missile." The kid added as an afterthought, "But don't worry, they have awful aim!"

"Comforting!" the old sergeant yelled, peeking out between two dividers to attack another mutant, blinding it. The kid got on one knee and fired five three-round bursts, his face blank. The amount of incoming fire lessened considerably with the action. On top of that, Jackrum couldn't hear the whoosh of the missile launcher anymore either.

"Go for the building!" The kid ordered, reloading, "I'll cover you! Three, two one, move!"

Jackrum bolted for the opening in the building, trying to ignore the zip and zing of hot metal. He entered the gap and turned backwards, feeling much more secure. He leaned against the wall beside the gap and took aim at the closest mutant. His assault rifle bucked against his shoulder six times and the mutant fell, a bullet in its brain. Gunpowder stung his eyes, and Jackrum made a private note to buy some goggles the next time he was in Rivet City. He moved on to the next mutant and opened fire, bathing it's doorway in lead. One of his bullets caught a lucky opening in its armour because the thing keeled over, it's hand going into spasms and spraying the entire area with a full magazine's worth of assault rifle rounds.

Fletcher dove through the doorway and joined him. The kid fought with calm precision, his accurate three-round bursts putting Jackrum's own Pump-enough-lead-into-it-and-it'll-fall-down-eventually method to shame.

They stayed there for what seemed like an eternity, reloading and firing, reloading and firing. The battle ended pathetically. There was no triumphant climax, no dangerous charge. The incoming fire just became less and less until just one lonely supermutant with a hunting rifle was taking potshots at the hole in the wall. Fletcher ended it with a single well-aimed assault rifle round.

Jackrum sank to the floor of the pre-war building, gripping his Chinese assault rifle between his legs, its butt resting on the floor, the tip in the air, smoke rising from it. Even at this distance he could feel the barrel's heat on his grimy, dust-covered face. The old veteran searched, his fingers scrambling amongst the dust and pebbles, but he couldn't' find the remains of his cigarette, so he pulled the pack out from under his chest armour. The tantalizing orange tip of the filtered deathstick shone like a diamond in a chimney sweep's ear. He pulled the bent fag out with his teeth and buried the packet away.

A match flared, and Fletcher held it out, lighting the Sergeant's cigarette for him. Jackrum took a puff, then leaned back and let his head hit the wall with a thump, "I'll tell you something, kid." He said, "You continue fighting like that and you'll be real popular around fort bannister."

* * *

In old times, a common trade was that of 'The Rag and Bone Man'. A ghoulish walker, making his way from door to door with a horse drawn cart. The man collected junk, rags, and yes, bodies and bones. Human, animal, it didn't matter. Everything was useful to someone. Things were passed down until someone low enough on the social scale was willing to use it. The collector moved through the streets ringing a deadened bell to let the locals know he was around. The emotions of the listeners as they heard the death toll was oft one of loathing and sickened disgust.

As she negotiated her way down through the blackened rocks to the coarse sand beach, Sarah felt that same sickness. She had no idea where the ringing was coming from. She strongly suspected it was a bell attached to one of the buoys, being bucked and rocked by the rolling ocean waves, but she wished for absolutely nothing more than to dive off one of the shredded, salt-caked docks, swim out, and dismantle it, or wrap a cloth around the knocker. Blow up the entire buoy, even. Anything to stop the death toll.

Their objective sat on a small rocky mound, too small to be a peninsula, and too high to be a spit. An old, unused word crept into her mind; byland.

The lighthouse itself was a tall building, seven stories painted white and green. Black windows crawled up the sides. The paint itself was cracked and chipped, revealing the ancient stone beneath. Eldritch hanging moss and strange creeping vines had overtaken the sides

This structure had been old _when the bombs fell_. It was still standing two hundred years after. Sarah suspected that, if left untouched, it would stand until the end of time itself. As would the rest of Point Lookout. What was happening to the building was not decay; it was being claimed by Point Lookout, becoming a natural part of the landscape instead of a human construct atop it.

However at that moment, it was still a human structure, and solid enough to use as a defensible position. The small island was connected to the mainland by a narrow bridge, covered in water during the high tide, and wet and slippery during low tide ancient strands of aquatic plant life covered it. As the expedition made their way across, fields of the bulbous green growths crackled and squished beneath their feet, the slime coating their boots and making it difficult to move. The small island had been overtaken by weeds and punga plants leaving only a worn, steep, and narrow path to the door of the lighthouse.

The expedition was forced to ascend the slope one at a time, and Sarah regretted how open and exposed they were. Any competent sharp-shooter could have made short work of them. She reminded herself that anyone or anything else attempting to reach the heavy door of the building would encounter the same disadvantage. Colvin was a competent sniper. Gallows was so much more than that.

She was the first to step inside the lighthouse. As her training dictated, she scanned the room twice. Once to verify it was clear of enemies, and the second time to actually examine it. The dusk sunlight shone through a window on the far wall. A dirty jukebox sat in the corner, though the room's most identifiable feature was an enormous ornate winding staircase spiraling up the inside of the tower. Bones and skeletons were scattered all over the floor. Sarah suspected that a few of them had fallen from the top of the staircase.

She took a few steps forward, scanning the ceiling, and the floor of the lighthouse opened up beneath her feet.

* * *

**To me, one of the subtle, though ultimate signs of badass is lighting a cigarette with the barrel of a gun. It's just awsome.**

**One of my favorite books in the entire world is Nightwatch by Terry Pratchett. Vimes is amazing and that book is the best of the entire series. Jackrum is at least partially based on Sam Vimes.**


	11. Chapter 11

Jackrum moved slowly amongst the group of conscripts, squinting to keep out the bright sun. They had stretched themselves out across the pedestal of the anchorage memorial, licking their wounds. The memorial itself was a ridiculous thing. A giant bronze quartet of heroic soldiers, standing guard over the liberated city of anchorage. Exemplary examples of heroism, courage, justice, and the American way. Back when things like that actually mattered. Jackrum had seen heroes. They tended to die horribly and painfully.

His route took him past Hakeswill, who was nursing one of the conscripts. The pale man was propped up against the statue, crying quietly for his mother. His hands were clasped over his belly, and a red stain was slowly spreading from underneath his palms. Jackrum crouched and pulled the patient's hands away. He used his combat knife to cut away some of the material, revealing a small bullet hole an inch and a half above the belly button. The wound was already beginning to stink.

"Help me, Sarge!" the kid begged.

Jackrum shrugged off his assault rifle and backed up a few feet to make sure he stayed clear of the spray. Hakeswill saw what he was doing and slithered away before the kid could get a decent hold of the man and pull him back.

"Not that!" were the recruit's last words.

Jackrum waited until the sounds had died away and the blood had stopped spurting. He looked around at the seven surviving conscripts. Them aside, only Spadge, Hakeswill, and the mysterious Fletcher had survived the attack. It could have been plenty worse, however. The entire group of survivors had gone quiet, and were watching him. All except mister Fletcher, who was patrolling the perimeter of the Anchorage memorial, watching for more supermutants. He hadn't been given any orders to, Jackrum noted, but at that moment the Sergeant was glad to have the kid around.

Jackrum looked around at the worried, sometimes hate-filled faces; he had killed one of their number. He slung the smoking gun back over his shoulder and sighed, "That's what's called a mercy killing."

"You didn't show much of _that _Sarge." One conscript said angrily.

"And what the fuck do you know, huh?" Jackrum unearthed his cigarette package and lit another one, "It would've taken four hours for him to bleed out. Not a happy ending." He watched their thoughtful faces for a moment, then moved to join Fletcher on the edge of the camp. The young man was staring into the ruins.

"You killed the kid." The boy intoned.

"I've watched my friends take shots to the gut." Jackrum replied, "Like a shot to the head, there's no hope. But it takes the bastards hours to die. And that's more than enough time for them to think everything through. I've watched Mercs lie in the sun and bake. By the end they don't even have the strength left to stop the crows from plucking their eyes out. But they're aware of it the entire fucking time." Jackrum began to pace through the camp, "I keep a special 'emergency' kit. It's got one of each kind of round in it, plus a fragmentation grenade. And none of those things are for the enemy. Take my advice, if you get shot in the gut, eat a bullet. It's faster."

The kid said nothing, but slowly flicked the safety on his assault rifle, his eyes staring deep into the ruins.

"What do you see?" Jackrum asked.

"There's a group of supermutants there, but they aren't attacking us." The boy replied quietly, "They know we're here, but they aren't attacking."

"Three round bursts." Jackrum murmured, staring into the ruins. The boy gave him a blank look which could have been interpreted in a hundred different ways, none of them correct.

"The Lone Wanderer fires in three round bursts." Jackrum told him, "I've seen his massacres. Three round bursts, all of them headshots. All of them kill shots."

The boy shrugged, "Good for him. Trigger discipline is a useful thing to know."

"Cut the crap. You're him. You're the Lone Wanderer and Jason Howlett is your real name. The only question is why you'd sign up as a recruit in the Talon Company…" his brow wrinkled, "We did it, didn't we? We're the ones who destroyed the purifier."

"If I was the Lone Wanderer, playing your hand would be a stupid move. You should wait until I'm surrounded and outgunned, like in the middle of fort bannister, then set a trap and kill me."

"If you are the Lone Wanderer," Jackrum replied, "Then trying something like _that _would be the stupid move. The smart move would be telling you that I know, and assuring you that I'm not going to get in the way. Taking myself off the list of things you have to worry about is the smart move. All I want to do is live to fight another day."

The kid gave him an appraising look, "Where are you from, Jackrum?"

"Rivet City. Born and raised." The veteran shrugged, "I saw _my_ dad die too, by the way."

"What happened?"

"He got caught at the wrong end of Rivet City's drawbridge during a supermutant attack." The Merc sucked his teeth, "I was at the right end. Way of the wasteland, eh?" He frowned, talking to himself more than Fletcher, "That woulda bin about thirty years back. We were one of the first families to settle down there."

"Was he holding them off?"

Jackrum laughed, "That old drunk? Nah, he was running like a pussy. He got shot in the ass, and then couldn't make the jump."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be." Jackrum shrugged, "I wasn't. he gave me too many black eyes."

The kid nodded.

Jackrum rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, "Look, I wasn't told anything about the Project Purity job. That means that whatever you're looking for is way above my paygrade, which also means that I don't care about it. But my bosses do. Now your disguise might fool the average merc, but it didn't fool me, and it won't fool my bosses."

"What did you have in mind?"

The Veteran grabbed Fletcher's arm and pulled out his knife, "You better trust me kid."

With that, he cut a long, harsh wound starting at the inside of the kid's elbow, spiraling around to the outside of the kid's unnaturally pale forearm and ending on the back of his hand. Fletcher barely winced, but was watching the old sergeant with a cautious expression.

Jackrum stood back and looked at his handiwork. The cut wasn't deep, but it looked serious. Those who weren't doctors wouldn't know the difference. Jackrum winced, "That's a hell of a wound, Mister Fletcher. You get that fighting the muties?"

"Yes Sarge." The boy replied grimly.

"Better cover that up." Jackrum told him, digging a bandage out of his pack, "Otherwise it'll get infected. It's a shame you're covering that arm up though. You had one hell of a dark tan there. It'll be gone when the thing's unwrapped, right?"

"Yes Sarge." The boy affirmed.

"Cryin' shame." Jackrum shook his head.

He turned to walk away, but the recruit stopped him, "You're taking my side?"

Jackrum turned back, "I'm taking mine, Mister Fletcher. If the time comes, I won't shoot you, and you don't shoot me, right?"

"Right." The kid said.

* * *

The drop didn't give Sarah time to do anything except register that the floor was gone. She landed heavily and painfully on a staircase below. The impact knocked the breath out of her body and left her coughing and choking, staring up at the spiraling stairs leading up the inside of the lighthouse. It looked surreal, as if someone had painted the spiraling staircase onto the inner walls of the lighthouse. A skeleton, still sporting a shock of wiry white hair, grinned down at her from an upper bannister as if laughing at her misfortune. The view was blocked by Artemis, who pulled her into a sitting position.

"I'm alright." Sarah gave her head a shake and examined the staircase. It lead down a full flight to a large, imposing metal door. Small amounts of rust were just beginning to show around the edges. At the center was an odd hexagonal window, hatched with wire to strengthen it.

"This looks promising." Rothchild said enthusiastically. He stepped daintily past her and tried the handle it opened easily, but it's squeaking hinges made the expedition cringe. Gallows was standing watch at the door to the lighthouse. He became visibly uneasy at the noise, gripping his sniper rifle slightly tighter.

Rothchild grinned back at the entourage, "It's here!" he hissed, "I can feel it!"

* * *

It started as a low hum. An ambient, ever-present background noise. Sarah wasn't even sure when she first became aware of it, but as she lead the team further into the facility, it became more and more prevalent. It was a quiet humming which sat at the back of the consciousness like a cobra, poised to strike.

The walls of the facility were tiled and clinical, yet their age had shown through in the form of cracks and mold. Many tiles were missing completely, exposing the metal and wires beneath. As she followed them, and listened to the hum grow, Sarah couldn't help but feel she was being lead down the path. That something aside from the G.E.C.K. awaited her at the other end. The entire facility was lit by white neon tubes placed near the floor, indented into the wall. On the low ceiling above their heads, pipes groaned and creaked.

Every hallway was rife with doorways, side rooms, and antechambers filled with medical equipment, lockers, ammo boxes, first aid kits, and safes.

Sarah moved into one of them and reached for an ammo box. Gallows caught her hand, "Don't touch anything. It doesn't know we're here yet."

"What doesn't?" Pek asked, eyes wide.

"Stay quiet." Gallows ordered. The scout took the lead, with Sarah following close behind him. They came upon a Robobrain, lying on its side. The brain itself had been blasted off. Dried blood was spattered on the walls and the floor beyond the deactivated machine. Gallows bent down and examined it. He reached into the biggest pile of gray matter and pulled out three lead rounds.

"The Lone Wanderer."

His hands traveled down the body of the robot until they came to a large bullet hole in its side, "He was traveling with someone else."

"How do you know?" Sarah asked.

"This is a .308 sniper round." The scout explained, "who would use a sniper rifle in such a confined space?"

"Let's keep moving." Sarah ordered grimly.

The path opened out into a rectangular room, and Sarah spotted a large wooden desk off to one side. Several small personal computers were sitting atop it, along with coffee mugs and a cappuccino machine in the corner. Behind the desk was an enormous bank of computers. Rothchild rushed forward eagerly and began a close examination of them.

"Step away!" Gallows ordered. The scribe waved him off and pressed a button at random.

Immediately, in the same way a cloud becomes a shape, or a pile of clothes becomes a monster in the darkness of a child's room, the constant hum was given words in the form of an eldritch, screeching, manic voice:

…_and gentle people…_

_Who live in my home toooown_

_Because those dear hearts and gentle people_

_Will never ever let you dooooown_

Gallows growled and pulled the old man away. Sarah turned and confronted the group. The soldiers were looking particularly nervous. She stepped forward and waved an arm to get their attention, "You're knights of the Brotherhood of Steel!" she reminded them over the constant off-key song. She noted, with some concern, that Taylor was happily singing along. "I want to see trigger discipline." She ordered, "Don't shoot unless you are absolutely sure you have a target."

The depraved singer raised his voice.

_They read the good book from Fri' till Monday_

_That's how the weekend goes_

_I've got a dream house I'll build there one day_

_With picket fence and raaaaamblin' rose_

Sarah turned to Gallows, "Let's move." They both loaded their weapons and stepped forward, ready to face whatever came. Then the voice addressed them directly, "I can feel you!" it rasped, "Like an itch beneath the skin! Scratch it till it _bleeds_!"

Sarah continued, letting it chatter away in the background. Her confidence was boosted by Gallows, who backed her up wordlessly.

"It knows you're here! Yes it does! The great worm!"

The expedition continued deeper into the bowels of the facility, trying desperately to ignore the voice.

"Ug-Qualtoth arises in the deep temple! It hates you!" The voice let loose a litany of curses and deadly promises which continued for some time. "You put the sun into a jar and broke it upon the world! A great crack shall open in the earth and swallow the non-believers! Swallow you whole!"

The nearer they got to the center, the louder the voice became. Strangely, this only made the group more confident. They felt that despite its boasts of horrific and painful deaths, if it could have done anything to stop them, it already would have. Their morale was further boosted by the dead shells of robots, and parts of turrets which had been scattered throughout the facility. Someone had cleared it of all physical threats.

The voice's boasts became more and more disjointed and nonsensical as they neared the hub, "The great worm arises in the deep temple, A great crack shall open in the earth and swallow you all! And you shall weep, weep, weep! Tears of salt and earth and dirt!"

The hallway ended in a final door. Sarah opened it and came upon a large round room. Two wrecked turrets lay on either side of a large set of pipes extending up through the center. At the far side was yet another door, and she knew that what they sought would be on the other side. She took her first step into the circular tiled space and was assaulted by a barrage of noise as the voice abandoned any language she'd ever heard. Her team was beset by an endless wall of eldritch, uncouth, guttural syllables, "Ug-Qualtoth bholo bo-me illisha-not mehailathail mot'chug ogog phao melzsa shotiq thudd yathosh tlamalarh ya-el."

Sarah faltered halfway across the room, overcome by the noise. Her vision blurred and room seemed to sway and churn beneath her feet. Every syllable was a hammer strike upon her consciousness and she fumbled desperately for the latch to her helmet. It finally clicked open and she tossed it away. She pressed her hands to her ears, trying to drown out the voice. Fresh red blood pooled between her knees, and she realized it was streaming from her own nose.

All at once, the noise stopped, and the room as bathed in a hard blue light. A hand grabbed her by the elbow and guided her to her feet. She stared into Gallows' tinted faceplate, trying to ignore her pounding headache.

"What the hell was that?" she heard Artemis demanding.

The expedition were scattered around the room. Knight Taylor was crowded against the wall, arms around his knees. He was rocking back and forth, staring wide-eyed into space and humming the foul song, apparently unaware of the blood trickling down his face. Colvin was crouched in utter silence, eyes shut, gripping small cross so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

"Vallincourt!" she heard Rothchild cry out. The old man was bent over one of his scribes. Sarah wiped her nose and crouched by his side, staring at the woman. She was very obviously dead. Blood trickled from her nose and ears. Her mouth was lolling open, the tongue fallen uselessly against the back of her throat.

"What the hell happened?" Artemis asked again as the expedition gathered around the Scribe's body.

"Is everyone else okay?" Sarah demanded.

Feedback blasted through the facility's intercom, making the expedition wince. A voice crackled to life. It was clearly not the same speaker as whomever had uttered the fouler language, though this was not a comforting fact, as this particular voice appeared to be riding on the very cusp of sanity. It said, "Are you real?"

"Who are you?" Sarah demanded.

"I don't know anymore…" the voice withered, "Things were so simple while he was still alive… I never expected this…Can you help me?"

"Depends." Sarah called out, "Where are you?"

"I don't know. I might be nowhere. I might be everywhere." In a plaintive voice it said, "I can't see anything. I don't have any eyes. I remember having eyes." It paused again, "Do you have eyes?"

"Yes." Sarah said.

"Can I borrow them? I want your ears, too. Ears that can hear!"

"I kinda need them." Sarah replied cautiously, glancing at the rest of the expedition.

It took no notice, "I haven't heard anything other than the beeping. And the hum. It's always there, the hum, but I can't shut it off!" the voice rose to a scream, "_I want it to stop but it just won't stop_! _All it ever talks about is that goddamned worm_!"

"What's your name?"

"Before I was the transcendent one, people knew me as Professor Calvert."

"Alright, Calvert." Sarah managed, "Do you know where you are right now?"

"Where is your body?" Rothchild asked. He leaned towards Sarah, "I think his mind is gone altogether."

"I don't have a body anymore. I'm beginning to think this was all a mistake." Said the voice of Calvert.

"We are in a facility beneath a lighthouse in Point Lookout." The old Scribe told it, "Is that where you are right now?"

"I am absolutely… almost… sure… that's where I am. You'll have to come find me. I'm afraid I've no more arms or legs."

As one, the expedition looked towards the open door. Blue light poured out, fluctuating and pulsing as if being projected through a glass of water. Sarah had seen sunlight form similar patterns on the bottom of the Project Purity tidal basin.

She walked through the door and found herself in a rather cramped space. The room was circular. Cathedral-like arches presented an impressive view of the central space. It was several stories deep, with thick bundles of wires, tubes, and steel, sprouting from both above and below. They met in the middle at a large cylindrical tank, wide and tall enough to hold a man. Within it, suspended in sickly green fluid, was a human brain. Small wired and tendrils extended from it and were plugged into both the base and the top of the container.

Two small catwalks, at perpendicular angles, extended precariously out over the deadly drop. Sarah stepped carefully onto the thin grating as the rest of the expedition filed through. It creaked and strained under the weight of her power armour. She peered over the edge to see protectron parts scattered all over the floor far below.

"Casualty." Gallows reported from somewhere off to the side, "Ghoul, male. Three assault rifle rounds in the forehead. Armed with a sniper rifle. His body's been stripped of ammunition."

"The Lone Wanderer was here?" Colvin asked, "Did he ever say anything to you about it, Sarah?"

Sarah glanced backwards and saw the Knight-Captain watching her from beneath one of the arches. She shook her head.

"_Fascinating_!" Rothchild hurried across the other catwalk, his face aglow with wonder as he inspected the tank, "We'd suspected this kind of thing had been done, but I never thought I'd see it with my own eyes…"

"Have you found me yet?" The voice inquired.

"Are you the brain in the tank?" Rothchild asked.

"That…sounds about right." The voice hazarded, "I'm pretty sure I might have been…"

"Who was the ghoul?" Sarah demanded.

"Desmond!" the voice proclaimed triumphantly.

"Well that explains _everything_." Colvin cut in.

"I can't even remember why I hated him…" the voice mumbled thoughtfully. It rallied a little, "But I'm sure he deserved it! Otherwise what would the point be?"

"We're looking for something called a Garden of Eden Creation-"

"The G.E.C.K. yes I know what it is. And you're too late. The voice intoned, "They came for it and they left with it."

"Who did?"

"Charon!" the voice bellowed, "The ferryman. The gatekeeper between its world and ours! He was dead, tossed into the great deep! But it brought him back for a purpose."

"Where is he?" Rothchild asked, staring at the meaty organ floating within the tank.

"I will tell you!" the voice said, "But you must do something for me in return."

"Whatever you ask." Sarah promised.

There was a pause. Then, in the most pathetic voice she had ever heard, the brain said: "Please kill me."

* * *

**I'm just getting started with Point Lookout. As I said before, I'm taking a few liberties with it. I'm hoping they pay off by making the place as creepy as hell.**

**On a side note: you cannot actually finish Point Lookout without killing Calvert, so what Jason did is technically impossible, but in the interests of the story, I'm tweaking that.**

**No, by Charon he does not mean the ghoul from underworld. Wiki the name.**

**I hate admitting this, but Modus Operandi burnt me out. As those of you who read it as it was being produced know, it was basically one long two-month non-stop writing party at roughly 1500 words a day, all the while I was putting 110% into making it the best fallout fanfic I possibly could. It burnt me out. The first ten chapters of Aqua Vitae were my second wind, but that ran out too. At this point, I'm running on fumes. The muse has taken a holiday. Jackrum is easy, but I have to get back into the right mindset for writing Point Lookout and that means torturing myself through Amnesia: The Dark Descent and a few other things. **

**Long story short, this book will take a lot longer than Modus Operandi did, but I'll be writing other stuff in between, and I **_**WILL **_**finish it. I get the feeling it's actually better written anyway, and that might be the extra time spent on it paying off.**


	12. Chapter 12

Aqua Vitae 12

Sarah and Rothchild stared into the tank.

"Alright." Sarah said, "I'll end it. But first you have to answer a few questions…" She did not ask why the brain wanted to die. That was obvious. She'd seen wounded soldiers request the same thing after losing their legs, arms, or eyes. The thing was suffering, being driven insane by sensory deprivation, and the all-consuming background madness which defined Point Lookout

"Things were so much easier when I had purpose." The brain lamented, "I wanted to end Desmond Lockheart. I didn't think about afterwards…"

"What happened?"

With the mention of the name Desmond Lockheart, the brain's voice became stronger, more focused and coherent. "He found me. Brought a companion to help him finish me off. A young man."

"The Wanderer." Rothchild qualified.

"He never said his name." the brain replied, "But he killed Desmond and left me alive in this state..."

"That doesn't sound like the benevolent Lone Wanderer." Rothchild muttered, "Killing his allies?"

"It might, actually." Sarah corrected. She addressed Calvert, "Why did he leave you alive?"

"He thought my knowledge of the old world's technology might be of use... "

"That sounds exactly like Jason." Sarah explained, eyeing the brain, "Anything that might benefit the Capital Wasteland, at any cost to anyone outside it. The whole 'friend to all' thing is Three-dog's creation."

"Well yes, but sensory deprivation is one of the most severe forms of mental torture." Rothchild argued, "Surely he's not cruel enough to let _that _continue…"

Sarah sighed. It had taken her a long time to understand Jason Howlett's methods and motives. The Wanderer's heart was in the right place, and under the right circumstances, he was a sweet, caring and sensitive young man. Yet somewhere within him dwelt an iron angel of death. A clockwork reaper, capable of inflicting without any remorse, pain and misery on a scale to rival and surpass those it hunted. The same man was capable both of acts of incredible horror, and incredible kindness. In a desolate, haunting land such as Point Lookout, that reaper would be king.

"Don't forget he crucifies enclave soldiers." She reminded the scribe, "Or that he destroyed the Pitt, man woman and child. He is perfectly capable of doing _this_." She gestured at the tank. "It's not a question of torture for Jason. Having Calvert's pre-war knowledge at his disposal would simply be another ace up his sleeve. A card to play, perhaps in case we couldn't repair Liberty Prime. It's just the way he thinks."

"Liberty Prime!" the Brain announced mechanically, "Commissioned by General Constantine Chase. An ambitious joint effort between the U.S. Army, General Atomics International, and RobCo Industries. Designed by Robert Edwin house. An elegant solution to the Anchorage Campaign. It's a pity they never sorted out the power fluctuation issues. It could have saved American lives." The voice took on an afflicted tone, "They should have consulted me."

"While we're on the subject of old technology," Sarah said, "Where is the G.E.C.K.? We know you had one here in the compound."

"It was stolen by the damned tribals." The Brain spat, "trying to grant new life to their 'Mother Punga'."

"And where can we find the Tribals?"

"North in the Ark and Dove cathedral."

Sarah's heart sank.

"It's on the coastline." Rothchild assured her, reading her mind, "No need to travel inland."

"Coastline will mean mirelurks." Gallows intoned.

"Stick with the devil you know." Colvin replied thoughtfully.

"Where are the maps?" Sarah asked.

"Back at the hotel."

Sarah nodded, thinking hard, "Colvin, Gallows and I will travel up the coast and pay the tribals a visit. Rothchild, you take Artemis, Pek and Taylor back to the hotel. Move all our supplies here."

"Taylor is down, Ma'am." Artemis interrupted.

"Dead?" Sarah asked. She had never gotten along with Artemis, but she held a fair amount of respect for him regardless. He had proven himself more than capable of staying cool under fire, and shown a knack for leadership. Until that very second, she had never seen him scared and shaking. The knight shook his head, "He's just fucking lost it."

She frowned, glanced at Rothchild, and then followed Artemis back to the circular chamber. Knight Taylor was curled up in the fetal position, rocking gently and muttering to himself. He giggled occasionally as if someone had told an amusing tale. His eyes were wild, his gaze fixed upon the wall opposite him. Lines of blood were caked beneath his nose. They ran down his chin and into his collar.

Sarah crouched beside the young man and tapped him lightly on the shoulder, "Taylor?"

The boy froze. She waved her hand in front of his face, but his eyes didn't follow it. She snapped her fingers, but he still showed no response. He kept muttering. Sarah caught a few words: Worm, temple, and clown.

She rose and turned back to Artemis, "He'll stay here until we figure out-" her instructions were interrupted by a brutish scream. She turned in time to see Taylor bearing down on her with inhuman speed. His spindly, delicate fingers wrapped around her throat and squeezed, choking the life from her. His initial charge took her by surprise, and by the time she reacted, they were already on the ground, his hands already around her neck. He began to giggle as the scribes rushed forward and tried to pry him off, shouting in fear and confusion. He shook them away and tightened his grip. Purple spots began to obscure Sarah's vision.

All she could see was his wide, mirthful eyes, his face a living version of the bulbous pint-sized slasher mask. He began to croon the depraved ballad as his grip tightened, "_I feel so weeelllcome each time that I return that my happy heart keeps laughing like a clooooown! With those dear hearts, and gentle Peo-_"

A rifle cracked and his head exploded, showering Sarah in blood and brain matter. The fingers slipped away as the corpse fell heavily against her chest. She fell against the cold tiles, gulping back great breaths of air. Each drawn breath was accompanied by a splat, as Taylor's corpse slowly pumped the last of its inner juices onto her battered chest plate. The smell of blood and ichor hung heavy in the air.

Gallows was standing in the doorway to Calvert's inner sanctum, framed by the blue light. A fine trail of smoke floated from the barrel of his sniper rifle. Her pumped the bolt, expelling a red-hot shell. It landed in the slowly spreading pool of blood, making it sputter and hiss.

"You killed him…" Artemis whimpered hollowly, staring at the decapitated corpse.

Gallows ignored the knight. He stepped forward and dragged Sarah to her feet, "Ark and Dove Cathedral." He intoned mechanically, "We get the G.E.C.K., we go home."

* * *

Jackrum had never been sure of the purpose behind the front gates of Fort Bannister. The outer defenses of the old pre-war military base were in such bad shape that any determined force could easily breach it from any direction. Landmines and sentries could only do so much. As far as the old merc was concerned, the only thing truly protecting the Talon Company mercs was their reputation.

The two-day forced march through the central plains of the capital wasteland had worked wonders upon the squad of weary recruits as they hobbled and crawled into the central ring of tents, and found what little shelter they could from the hot sun. Fletcher dropped his packs of gear in the center along with the others, laid the assault rifles carefully on the ground, insuring that no dust made it into the breaches, then took a seat on a nearby table.

As one, the recruits all took their shoes off and began massaging their weary feet, wriggling their toes in the dry air.

Jackrum marched up to the center of the circle and waved an arm to get their attention, "How many of you are sore?"

The dumber ones put up their hands, and he made a mental note to see to it that they got assigned the more dangerous tasks; in his own experiences, those still alert enough to think on their feet after the grueling twelve hour forced march through the hot desert, were the ones who lived to see the end of battles. The more battles a merc survived, the more likely it was that he was going to live past the age of thirty. The first fight was the riskiest. Mistakes were most likely to be made. It determined what the length of one's career was.

One of the recruits winced, examining his foot carefully. An enormous pale blister had taken root on the ball of his foot, and was very obviously causing him immense pain. He was one of the quiet ones, who had taken the march with resigned determination instead of muttered complaints.

Jackrum crouched in front of him. "Marching on that monster's going to be a bitch."

"Yes Sarge." The boy said grimly.

"S'yer name, boy?"

"Sullivan." The kid said, clutching his foot tenderly.

Jackrum pried it out of his grasp. He sat down cross-legged on the hot dirt with the boy's foot in his lap, and pulled out his combat knife. The boy watched him nervously.

"Do you trust me, kid?"

"Not really sarge."

Jackrum grinned to himself, "Smart answer, Sullivan." He set the tip of the blade against the juiciest point of the bulge and looked up at the recruit. "On Three. You count."

"One," the boy said, "Two- ouch!" his face was overtaken with an expression of blissful relief as the fluid drained down the blade of the knife.

"Just a little trick my old sergeant taught me." Jackrum muttered, rewarding himself with a cigarette, "You keep that foot high, dry, and clean till the docks can patch it up. And don't tear the skin off, either; shit ain't dead yet, and you got none underneath it."

He wiped the knife off on Sullivan's pant leg, rose to his feet, and walked over to Fletcher. After twelve hours of heavy travel, the boy looked none the worse for wear. He had done long marches before, very obviously. Much longer than anything even Brotherhood paladins were used to.

"You should look more tired." Jackrum muttered, "watch what they're doing."

The boy watched the rest of the recruits for a moment, then took of his own boots and settled down on the table, letting his feet dangle in the air. Jackrum gave him a nod.

"Jackrum!" a voice called. A man was carefully picking his way through the new recruits. He was dressed in fearsome metal armour. Spikes had been welded onto the shoulderblades. Hoses and tubes attached different plates together and when in combination with the leather underneath, the entire thing looked imposing and aggressive, which matched the personality of its occupant perfectly. Jackrum didn't especially like Jabsco. The man tended towards petty grudges, and was biased towards certain kinds of jobs. He wasn't hesitant about putting his men under deadly fire either.

Jackrum saluted. "Jabsco."

"Come with me." The man ordered, "We got another job for you."

"I haven't even finished recovering from this one, though."

"Don't care." The man's eyes fell on Fletcher, who returned his gaze steadily. "Who's this?"

"Fletcher," Jackrum answered for the young man, "Former Brotherhood. Saved the rest of the recruits from a supermutant ambush on the way here."

Jabsco grunted, inspecting the recruit. He took special notice of the blood-soaked bandage around the young man's left arm. "He any good with a gun?"

"Better than me. Trigger discipline, deadly aim. Keeps his cool."

"Bring'em with, then."

The man led them through the ruins of the old fort until he reached an old staircase leading down into its bowels. Then their path led them through the winding anthill of underground tunnels which made up the majority of the Talon Company headquarters. Jabsco directed them through a simple door and into a side room, well lit with gas lamps. Jackrum entered first and beheld a cultured man sitting at a simple brushed steel table. The man had an air of superiority, and danger which immediately set Jackrum on edge.

The stranger looked to be in his fifties, dressed in a dapper pre-war suit which had been laundered to the point of pristine cleanliness. He was wearing a dark fedora and had tortoiseshell glasses balanced precariously on a bent, crooked nose.

He rose from the table and extended his hand. "Good afternoon. I trust your walk was…invigorating?"

"Who are you?"

"I have many names." The man said, his eyes twinkling, "But for the purposes of this meeting, I would like you to call me Mister Burke."

"What happened to your nose?"

"It was broken by the Lone Wanderer." The man said, his voice growing angry. "One day I hope to return the favour."

Jackrum tried his hardest not to look at Fletcher, who quietly followed Jabsco through the door.

"Take a seat, Gentlemen." Burke ordered. Extra chairs had been lined against the wall. Jackrum pulled one over and planted himself onto it unceremoniously. The other two took a little more care.

Burke, with an unusual amount of care, held up a small vial. Within it was contained a sickly yellow gas. The attentions of all in the room were inexorably drawn to it.

"Do you know what this is?" the man asked, giving it a loving caress.

"That's the FEV virus…" Fletcher said in a constrained voice. The boy took a few steps backwards. Burke's gaze snapped to him and stayed there. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Correct. How did you know?"

Fletcher licked his lips nervously, his gaze fixed on the vial, "Former Brotherhood. The Wanderer told us…that stuff is extremely dangerous. How did you get your hands on it?"

"I have…connections." Burke frowned, "You're voice is familiar…Former Brotherhood, you say?"

Fletcher nodded.

"Hmm…" Burke's frown deepened as he examined the young man, taking in the bloodstained bandage on his left arm. "I _will _have that confirmed by when our contact returns from his errand."

"You go right ahead and check." Fletcher replied coldly, "Now how did you get your hands on the FEV virus?"

Jabsco cuffed the boy upside the head, yelling, "That is your _Employer _maggot! You treat him with respect!"

Jackrum intervened. "Someone want to clue me in, here? Why is this thing so dangerous?"

"If I were to break this vial here and now," Burke explained calmly, "All four of us would become supermutants. Not to mention any other Mercs unfortunate enough to walk in on us. Perhaps even the entire fort…"

"How?" Jackrum asked, trying not to look at Fletcher for an explanation.

"We've known for a long time that Supermutants take prisoners," Burke told them, "They take prisoners and put them in airtight cells deep in one of the vaults. Then they pump in this gas…" He waved the vial, making both Fletcher and Jackrum tense. "And the victim either walks out as a brand new supermutant, or is dragged out as a failed broken abomination."

"The Supermutants are people…" Jackrum tried to suppress the sudden surge of guilt He had lost count of how many of their prisoners he'd simply ignored. He said, "Is there any way to turn them back?"

"I am so _very_ glad you asked!" Burke exclaimed. "The FEV virus, or Forced Evolutionary Virus was originally created as a Vaccine in an operation called the Pan-Immunity Virion Project, developed by a pre-war company called Wes-Tek. It was originally meant as a vaccine designed to inoculate the general public against any communist attempts at any form of biological warfare, no matter what toxins were used, or what their effects would have been. The ultimate cure. Simple fighting men like you would not understand the science. You should understand that upon seeing the effects the PVP prototype virus had on test subjects, the government took it and transformed it into the FEV virus, which is the Supermutant generator." He set the vial down carefully on the desk. "Recently, certain associates of mine gained access to Wes-Tek labs on the opposite side of the nation, and discovered that the research continued on the cure as well. This counter-virus isolates and-"

"I don't care." Jackrum interrupted, waving his hand. "Give us the short version."

"It's a cure." Fletcher answered in awe.

"Quite right. It was completed, and shipped to a vault. Not a Vault-Tec vault, but a literal vault." Burke smiled slightly, "The one thing capable of stopping the supermutants… and with a little tweaking, it could kill them all."

Jabsco, who had fallen silent, spoke: "How many times have you been assigned to the Capitol Building, Sergeant Rumsfeld?"

"Seventeen." Jackrum replied, "Managed to take it eight times, too. Never could hold it, though."

"In each case, it was your squad who survived." Burke reminded him, "Why?"

"Cos I'm not stupid about it." Jackrum shrugged. "You gotta know when to hold'em, and know when to fold'em."

Burke said, "You know how to survive. That's why we're sending you in to retrieve the cure from the vaults beneath the capitol building."

Jackrum stared. "Say what?"

"You're going to lead fifteen of our best soldiers into the Capitol Building. You are going to retrieve the cure, and you're going to lead them out."

Burke intervened, "Another small detail, If you'd allow me, Jabsco."

The merc leader nodded.

Burke addressed Jackrum directly, "None of you are to wear anything with a Talon Company logo. Don't ask questions, just nod."

"What's the commission?"

"Fifteen hundred caps for every soldier who makes it out alive, plus another five thousand paid directly to you the moment you put the cure in my hands."

Jackrum stared. "Six thousand, five hundred?"

"Correct."

"Bullshit. And I'm not doing it!" Jackrum replied defiantly, "If you don't want us wearing company logo, that means you don't want anyone to say 'Talon Company did it!' right? And the best way to do that is to kill us once the mission's done. You get your cure. The mission stays a secret, and you get to keep your money, too."

"I don't kill my own!" Jabsco snapped angrily.

"You've sent too many greenhorns after the Lone Wanderer for me to believe that!" Jackrum responded, recalling the image of the recruit's head being torn off. "I'm not going after the cure!"

"By your logic, they'd have to kill you if you declined, as well, though." Fletcher reasoned, "You might as well try for the money. If you're really worried, you could have them leave the money somewhere in the wasteland, and you leave the cure somewhere else. It's survivable…"

"Alright, fine." Jackrum sniffed, "But you're coming with me. And you'll do it for free."

"Bullshit." Fletcher replied. "I'll do it for fifteen hundred caps." Fletcher thought for a minute, "Actually, make that sixteen hundred. I got a nice little rifle at Flak'n Shrapnel's I've been eyeing up."

Jabsco let out a bellowing laugh and slapped the young man on the back, "Now _That's _a mercenary! You'll fit in just fine here, Fletcher."

Burke smiled and tossed the vial up in the air, making Jabsco and Jackrum gasp. They watched in utter horror as it pin-wheeled in a wide arc, headed straight for the edge of the desk. He began to reach out for it, realizing that Burke was going to make no attempt.

Fletcher's hand snapped out and caught it as it was about to hit the desk.

"Excellent Reflexes, Mister Fletcher." Burke observed.

"Not so good." Fletcher replied, "If they were excellent, I would've caught it on the way up."

Burke studied the young man's face for a moment, then said, "Alright, take him with you."

* * *

**For anyone wondering about sensory deprivation, I'd suggest looking up a movie called Johnny Got His Gun. Or read the book. It illustrates pretty well what would happen to a person who can do absolutely nothing but think.**

**Granted I've never experienced torture of any kind (I just **_**know**_** some self-righteous ass is going to point that out if I don't), so I have no real reference level, but the thought of prolonged sensory deprivation terrifies me, probably second only to waterboarding.**

**I've resolved to try and not write anything that's not fallout related at least until this book is done. That guarantees I'll get it done.**

**The blister business was stolen shamelessly from the TV miniseries 'The Pacific'. A lot of stuff I do, including general grittiness was stolen shamelessly from it. As for a supermutant cure… It's another change. No such thing exists in the cannon universe. The original PVP virus was never completed/never made to work as intended. But hopefully it'll pay off in the sequels.**

**Another thing: This is offically a cooperative project. Fact is that i've had a silent partner in crime throughout this book and the tail end of Modus Operandi. I do the writing, but all major plot ideas have been bounced off him and vastly improved. So if you like this series, send a line to Krow Blood too (he's on the favorites list).**


	13. Chapter 13

In pre-war times, the Capitol Building would have been an imposing sight. Roman style architecture with an art deco twist, the structure was several stories tall, with great white marble pillars and vast windows. Great stone staircases lead up to the back doors of the enormous structure. The pillars were now cracked, decayed and sometimes missing entirely, and the windows had all been smashed and most were filled with rubble, but it was an imposing sight nevertheless, and spoke volumes about the might of the former nation.

The sounds of gunfire echoed all the way up the street, and Jackrum swore as he reached the open field between the Capitol Building and Seward Square. It used to be a grassy field, used by the public. Jackrum had no doubt that before the war, children had played soccer in it. Now it was covered in debris, pieces of old buildings, and piles of sandbags and old tires, all of which were being used for cover by the Talon Company. The supermutants were holding their ground, taking cover behind the marble pillars. The impact of bullets against concrete was a constant driving white noise, punctuated by the occasional sprang noise when one of the projectiles ricocheted off an exposed piece of rebar.

"Sons of bitches…" he muttered, watching the battle. Streams of yellow tracer rounds painted lines of dust, debris, and craters across the bases of the pillars, and the twisted concrete the Talon Company was using as cover. The Mercenaries were very obviously green. They spent most of their time cowering behind the safety of the concrete, usually poking their assault rifles and shotguns out to blindfire at the enemy. The mutants had three advantages: The height of their position meant that the meager cover provided by the concrete ruins and piled tires was rendered almost useless. Even if the battle had been on level ground, the pillars gave them superior cover, which meant that even if the mercs were bothering to aim, they would still have a hell of a time finding targets. The mercs were also ill-equipped. Shotguns and assault rifles were deadly when used properly, but the range, the cover, and the height differences meant that hunting rifles would win the day. Accuracy was key. The Supermutants not only had hunting rifles, but miniguns. They were capable of inflicting death with both oppressive fire and deadly precision, though they usually ignored the latter option in favor of the former.

Jackrum searched the battlefield and spotted the command post; a tiny sandbagged shelter sitting in the middle of the street. Easy prey for a rocket launcher or fatman.

The old veteran sat back and examined his small group. A dozen mercs, all with minimum five years' experience in the field. They looked extremely uneasy in their unmarked combat armour. They were Talon Company Mercenaries. Professional Killers. The black armour and white claw symbol was a central aspect of the machismo.

"We're s'posed ta get through _that_?" One of them asked, watching as the mutants pinned their comrades. The man in question as carrying a sniper rifle which Jackrum ripped from his grasp and handed to Fletcher. "Start Sniping, Brotherhood. The muties with hunting rifles. Then the heavies. I want anyone trying to outgun our boys to have a real bad time, understand me?"

Wordlessly, Fletcher deftly pumped the bolt, loaded a new magazine, sighted into the scope, and pulled the trigger. The sniper rifle boomed methodically, and with each shot, the fire pouring down on the pinned talon company mercs was lessened slightly. There were too many for one sniper, even one of the boy's caliber, to do much real damage to the supermutant defenses, but he was getting noticed.

"See? Piece of piss," Jackrum said.

He stared beyond them at the decayed ruins of Seward Square. The Talon Company platoon now being pinned outside the doors of the Capitol Building had been forced to fight their way there. Behind them they had left a long trail of hulking green bodies, weapons and ammunition scattered aimlessly across the park. "I want all of you except Mister Fletcher to go back and find as many hunting rifles as you can. Enough to arm our boys over there." He stared at their confused faces, then waved an arm, "Get it done!"

The small group scurried away, leaving Jackrum and Fletcher alone together.

"Kid, I need to know right now, are you the Lone Wanderer? I don't want no dodging the question. I ain't gonna turn you in. At this point, they'd take me down with you." He motioned at the battle. "But my boys' lives might hang on the fact. Are you him?"

Fletcher watched him carefully for a moment, then nodded. "Yes."

"Right then…" Jackrum glanced back at the battle, trying to resist the urge to edge away. "I'm going to walk slow and calm over to the CP."

The Wanderer eyed the area doubtfully. "It's a deathtrap. They'll target you."

"Nope. Because you aren't going to let them touch a hair on my head."

"You trust me?"

"Your life is in my hands. Now I'm going to put mine in yours. I'm more useful to you alive than dead. Those kids out there are getting slaughtered. They need to get juiced up if they're going to make a difference. You and I can give them a show."

"True…" the Wanderer eyed the supermutant positions. "Alright. Let's do this."

The moment the Veteran stepped out from behind cover, a mutant with a hunting rifle opened up on him. The sniper rifle coughed a silencing reply. Jackrum turned and continued on his way to the command posts. He sped up slightly, noticing the barrel of a minigun winding up. The mutant's head exploded and the bullet hose clattered uselessly off the ledge. A few other mutants attempted to pick him off, but none of them made it past the first shot, which was always a miss at that range. Supermutants possessed neither the precision, nor patience enough to bother with accuracy, relying on the sheer weight of incoming fire to kill their enemies.

Jackrum paused when he was halfway to the command post. He turned towards the capital building and surveyed the battlefield theatrically. The mutants were furious, but just smart enough not to shoot at him. They had basic pattern recognition skills, and had rapidly learned that shooting at Jackrum meant instant death. The greenhorns crouched behind cover were staring at him in wide-eyed wonder. The old veteran grinned at them , "Evenin' boys."

He pulled a squashed packet of cigarettes from underneath his chest plate and lifted one to his lips, pinching it between thumb and forefinger.

A roar echoed around the battlefield as a single supermutant master leapt down from his perch, waving a super-sledge. Jackrum watched it carefully as it charge at him, screaming threats. The old sergeant stayed calm, gripping his cigarette between his lips and putting the packet away, he allowed it to pass by his pinned allies, then brought up his own assault rifle and opened fire, aiming at the mutant's navel. He let the gun's kickback do the work for him, forcing the barrel upwards, the stream of lead slicing the mutant in two.

Smiles broke out among the trapped mercs as the beast fell, it's sledgehammer chipping the pavement.

Repeating the trick he'd learned on his way to the anchorage memorial, Jackrum held the hot barrel up to the tip of his cigarette and took a long drag. This resulted in appreciative laughter, and the trapped mercs showed a renewed spirit. The Veteran had learned that rule long ago: Buck'em up before you Fuck'em up. Men were willing to fight long and hard for symbols, and the sight of the untouchable old sergeant did wonders for morale. He yelled, "Sit tight boys! Let's take it back!"

With that, he turned and continued to the vulnerable command post, where he found the squadron commander cowering behind a pile of sandbags. He was a young man, probably the unwilling victim of a field promotion, if the blood-spattered bodies were any guess.

Jackrum crouched beside the man. "I'm taking over. That a problem?"

The kid stared up at him with big round honest eyes and shook his head.

"Right then!" Jackrum looked across the field and spotted his merc team delivering the first batch of hunting rifles. He watched as the supermutants opened fire at the new group. One of the dozen or so fell, spilling a set of hunting rifles onto the pavement. Jackrum leapt out of cover and dashed over to the nearest group of pinned mercenaries, slamming into the concrete beside them.

The arrival of more mercenaries had lent a new hectic fury to the battlefield. Bullets whined and flew back and forth, turning the no-man's land between the two positions into a death-dealing gauntlet.

"Fire back!" Jackrum ordered, pushing his small group of six greenhorns into some semblance of order. "Fire back! Aim! Two round bursts. Don't just unload you won't hit fuck all!" He rested his Chinese assault rifle against a piece of rebar and took aim at one of the distant green shapes, tapping the trigger, letting off one round at a time and adjusting his own aim along the way. A splotch of blood appeared on the beast's left shoulder, and Jackrum let off a three round burst, moving his sights slightly left. He was rewarded as two giant holes opened up in the mutant's neck, one squarely through the adam's apple, the other in its right collar bone. The thing dropped its gun and held both of its giant hands up to its neck in a futile attempt to stop the blood flow. A few seconds later it toppled forward and rolled down to the bottom of the steps.

Bolstered by the kill, Jackrum's soldiers began to follow his example and aim at their enemies. One of their number was swearing frantically and pumping the bolt on his assault rifle.

"Give it here!" The old sergeant ordered, snatching the broken weapon away. He handed the recruit his own assault rifle and looked down at the jammed weapon. The empty cartridge case had been caught in the chamber, sticking out halfway, perpendicular to the barrel of the gun. Stovepiped. That was the term. It occurred usually when the weapon in question was being mishandled.

"That's what happens when you blindfire, dumbass!" Jackrum shouted at the recruit, "You do this to my rifle and I'll gut you!" With practiced hands he ejected the magazine and pumped the bolt manually, drawing the half-ejected cartridge back into the chamber and letting it fall through the open hole in the bottom. Then he reloaded and handed the gun back.

There was a sudden clatter as Fletcher arrived, dumping a pile of hunting rifles on the ground beside him. Staying in cover he slowly passed across the line of recruits, swapping the hunting rifles for their assault rifles. At last he came to Jackrum and handed the old sergeant a hunting rifle.

"Where are the others?" the old sergeant demanded over the hiss and whine of bullets. He ducked as a tracer round pinged off his concrete cover, leaving a black scorch mark. The smell of burning phosphor mingled in the air with the gunsmoke.

"Spread out along the line." Fletcher replied. Jackrum leaned out and examined the groups of mercenaries. His small unmarked squad was among them, adding their own considerable firepower. Sure enough, the crack of the slow yet accurate workhorses was overpowering the mutants' frantic defenses. Being properly equipped for the job was key. Using the steel rebar as support, Jackrum took careful aim at a supermutant. He fired a shot and saw watched the red blood fountain from the creature's chest.

The supermutants fought back as best they could, but their suppressive bursts couldn't fight against the accuracy of the hunting rifles, and their numbers slowly dwindled until at last, the few remaining beasts were forced back into the Capitol Building, serenaded by the cheering mercenaries.

"Assault rifles only!" Jackrum shouted, hearing the order being carried down the line, "Cover the windows. Move up!" he sprang from cover and sprinted up to the base of the giant staircase. Fletcher followed, with the rest of the mercs flowing behind him, and the Talon company entered the Capitol Building.

* * *

The trio stared across the open ground. Cold water flowed silently through the valleys between roughened spits of sand. The fjords of the river mouth opened to the vast ocean. Once again, Sarah was struck by the strange behavior of the fog. It shrouded their view of the church on the cliff on the opposite bank, and stretched out, growing thicker the further inland she looked. Yet it stretched out twenty feet over the open ocean and then stopped as if held back by an invisible shield. Beyond it was clear water and a bright blue sky with a hot sun. More than ever, Sarah felt isolated form the rest of the world. The infernal death toll of the buoy bells rang out, the sound echoing across the barren moors.

"Look at the water." Gallows prompted.

Sarah glanced down at it. It was the same radioactive translucent green liquid as it had ever been. She looked back at Gallows in curiousity, and he gestured at it. She lookbed back down and then frowned.

"It's flowing _Inland_!" Colvin observed, bending over to stick his hand in it. Sure enough the flow caused a V to form, with his hand at the tip, and the ripples spreading towards the bridge.

"I don't like this" She told them, looking out across the open fjords. They were shallow, never more than knee deep. The weight of the trio's combat armour would be a liability, and the crossing would be slow, but it was manageable.

"Too open." Gallows intoned. "We'd be silhouetted against the ocean. Easy targets."

"We can't see thirty feet inland." Colvin reasoned, "That means they can't see us either…" He hesitated. "…Right?"

"Don't assume that till we know who 'they' are."

"We have to cross it." Sarah said, "I'm not taking us inland."

The mists parted invitingly to reveal a bridge further down the river. All three of them watched the distant wooden structure. It looked stable enough to hold their weight, and was suspiciously free of any movement. Colvin licked his lips and sighed. "I guess we're crossing _here_, then."

"You two first." Gallows ordered, "I'll cover you."

"Who's covering you?" Colvin responded.

Sarah held her laser rifle up and took her first step into the cold water, feeling it seep into her suit, weighing her down. The current was strong, and the soft earth of the riverbed sucked at her feet. She tore herself free, thanking Paladin Gunny, and the Brotherhood lifestyle for keeping her body in excellent physical shape. The trip to the first spit nearly cost her, as she nearly tripped once, and nearly got stuck in the ground twice. But she managed to keep her footing and muscle her way through. She reached the dry sand and turned to watch as Colvin made his way across, keeping his sniper rifle above his head. He fell once, but managed to drag himself to his feet while keeping his sniper rifle dry.

Gallows followed them, having apparently no problems at all negotiating the strong pull of the river. Colvin pointed inland and the three of them looked. The bridge was once again veiled in fog.

Sarah crept out into the second leg of the crossing, feeling the riverbed sucking at her feet. She was halfway across when her leg suddenly sank a full foot into the soft riverbed, trapping her. At that very moment, she heard Colvin cry out in a frantic voice, "Mirelurks!"

She looked sideways and went cold. Two dark indistinct shapes were gliding speedily, converging on her. They remained below the water, but close enough to the surface that their locations were marked by cresting waves. She began to tug at her trapped leg frantically, but her efforts only caused the mud to suck her in further. Colvin took a few steps into the water to help her, but she ordered him back. Thinking quickly, she pulled out a frag grenade and tossed it at the shapes. The small green ball sunk below the surface, then exploded throwing a frothing white wall of water up ten feet into the sky, soaking the trio in a wet rain. It had fallen short of its intended targets, but the shockwave stunned them temporarily, buying her precious seconds. She pulled out her laser rifle and fired several shots into the water, the heat of the beam causing steam to rise from the impact points. The beams themselves split into thousands of tiny unfocussed beams, refracted by the water. The mirelurks recovered and then they were too close for the rifle. Sarah pulled her combat knife from the sheath on the small of her back. Regulations and standard practices frowned on engaging mireluurks in close-range, but she was out of options. The dark shape exploded out of the water, launching itself at her. It was humanoid, with mossy shoulders, and glowing yellow eyes. Large fins adorned its sleek body, and as it roared at her, a foul salty stench wafted through the filters on Sarah's helmet.

Gallow's sniper rifle cracked and the beast's head exploded, throwing it's body back into the water. Behind it came a larger shape a mirelurk hunter, head bowed, it's heavy carapace preventing either Gallows or Colvin from landing any killing shots. It was charging at her, and Sarah braced herself for the blow, gripping her knife tightly. It impacted her breastplate with a clang, sending both of them flying backwards into the water. Sarah cried out in pain as she felt her leg twist free. The only thing she could see beyond the narrow visor was the pale deadened white of the sky. Then dark green water oozed over the view as she landed in the water. It poured through her filters, clogging them and choking her. She took a last desperate breath and held it as water filled her helmet. Though her view was obscured, she could still make out the shape of the mirelurk, all four of its claws ready to crack open her shell. She struck out desperately at the only soft part of its armour. Her combat knife entered its aquatic face, followed closely by her fist. Her hand closed on some unknowable pulsing fleshy tendon as she cut back and forth, thrusting her knife as far as she could into the beast, slicing and chopping. She could hear the muddle clack of its pincers as they spasmed. Dark blood flowed into the water above her head, cutting off all vision. The foul water was inside her suit, making it hard to move. It flowed up her nose and down the back of her throat it was in her eyes, hair and ears. The weight of the mirelurk became dead weight, combined with her armour, dragging her to the bottom of the pool. Trying to stay calm, Sarah tried to concentrate on one thing at a time. Her lungs bursting, she let go of her tangled knife; keeping it wouldn't do much good if she drowned anyway, and pulled her arms out of the mirelurk, her muscles straining against the water, and her own armour. She reached behind her back, finding the small button Ishmael Ashur had pressed a month before. There was a sudden release of pressure as the suit burst apart, releasing her from its death grip. She kicked off her boots, ignoring the crippling pain in her leg, and swam towards the surface. She broke into fresh air and took in huge gulps of breath , coughing up water and paddling desperately towards the sand dunes. She dragged herself halfway out of the water and lay there for a moment, letting the panic fade. Water sloshed behind her, and hands grasped the shoulders of her recon armour, turning her over onto her back. She felt the hard grains of sand covering her cheek. Colvin stared down at her, a worried expression on his face. Behind him, Gallows was keeping watch

"Sarah?"

"My leg hurts." She took a breath and tried to clear her head.

"Can you walk."

"Yes." She struggled to her feet and looked across the fjords, towards the lighthouse. The body of the strangely-coloured mirelurk king. Floated gently, bouncing against the dunes. In the pool to her right, she could just make out the shape of the mirelurk hunter. Blood billowed from its open wounds and was being carried inland by the current. Underneath it was her power armour and all her weaponry. Ejecting had been a matter of necessity, but she had never felt more exposed to the elements and raw power of the land. Colvin handed her his sidearm which was a pitifully small consolation.

She turned back to the church on the distant cliff. She could just make out a rocky winding path leading up from the far bank to the top of the cliff.

"We should have taken the bridge." Colvin said bitterly.

"No." Gallows shook his head, watching the landscape and coiling tendrils of fog, "We made the right choice.

"How can you know that?"

"All three of us are still alive." The sniper looked at them, eyes hidden by the dark visor, "We get the G.E.C.K.. We go home."

* * *

**Found the Supermutants' theme song: Shoot To Kill, by Two Steps From Hell. Check it out. And trying fighting supermutants while playing it. It's pretty awesome.**

**In-game, you can swim like a fish when you're in power armour. That makes no sense whatsoever, so fuck it. That's out. Also, it makes sense that they'd wear recon armour underneath the power armour. It looks like some kind of interface, and if they ever have to eject from the power armour, it means they still have some form of protection.**

**I know the mirelurk king is actually a swamplurk queen, but how would they know that? And would it matter to them? **

**I actually split Sarah's section of the chapter up. This is the first part, the Ark and Dove Cathedral itself is the next. We're about halfway through Point Lookout. Now things start heating up a bit.**

**Sorry about the slow updates.**

**anyway if you read it, leave a review please. It's amazing how much those help to motivate.**


	14. Chapter 14

Aqua Vitae 14

Fletcher entered the shadow-filled foyer first, guns blazing. Jackrum followed, watching the Wanderer's three-round bursts neatly cutting down their opposition. The only light was provided by the fires contained neatly in rusted oil barrels. Sandbags, now soaked with mutant blood had been piled strategically, incorporating fallen pillars into the defensive formation. Jackrum knew that if the defense had been manned properly, any intruder coming through the small door would have been forced to run a gauntlet with fire coming in from three different positions. Fortunately Fletcher's quick trigger finger prevented any of them from doing more than reacting to the sudden flow of Talon Company mercenaries. One lucky mutant managed to get a shot off as its own forehead was riddled with bullets. It went high and hit the doorframe above Jackrum's head.

At the far end of the hall was a doorway leading into the interior of the Capitol building., hidden behind another sandbag blockade. Five mutants came pouring out of it, launching a confused counter, trying to push the mercs out. Three of them were carrying assault rifles and Fletcher cut them down immediately. A fourth vaulted over the sandbags and rushed the group, brandishing a hammer. In one smooth motion, Fletcher dodged the clumsy hammer strike, leaped up at the mutant, drawing his combat knife, stabbed it in the neck, landed on the ground, shouldered his assault rifle and gunned down the fifth mutant, who had readied a grenade.

"Fletcher, hold them back!" Jackrum ordered. The boy took cover beside the door and began firing down the hallway. Jackrum turned back to the talon company mercs, recalling Burke's orders. "Anyone wearing Talon Company armour, stay here and hold this position." He ordered. "This is our exit. The rest, come with me."

The mercs dressed in unmarked combat armour stepped forward. Some of them were wearing grim expressions, and all of them keeping a careful eye on Fletcher, who was holding the hallway by himself. Jackrum ordered them to strip the dead mutants of ammunition, then moved to join the Wanderer.

Fletcher nodded at him, pausing to reload. The veteran poked his head out into the hallway and took a quick look. Shadows obscured most of the offices, cut by the occasional hanging light fixture. He could see hulking shapes moving beyond the sparse pools of light.

He motioned his team over and whispered a fast set of instructions; "Teams of two. Keep out of the light. When you move, keep low, when you shoot, keep high. I don't want any friendly fire. Cover eachother. Trigger discipline. Don't shoot unless you have a target. How many people here have shotguns?"

Four mercenaries raised their hands.

"You guys sweep any rooms we pass. I want nothing sneaking up behind."

The team moved slowly through the upper floor, neatly cutting down the minimal opposition, and making Jackrum thankful that he was traveling with an experienced group. Oddly enough, though the boy's contributions had already made him an invaluable asset, Fletcher was the odd man out. He was clearly uncomfortable working with a group, and more often than not, elected to disappear into the maze of offices and hallways, working by himself. Even as Jackrum's team was moving silently into the bowels of the Capitol Building, they could hear his strict three-round bursts echoing through the hallways, accompanied by the comforting screams of dying supermutants. Then he would rejoin them, stepping out of some near-invisible side-door. Jackrum had no doubt that he was the reason for the ease of their advance.

At last they reached The Dome. Jackrum had been there before, but it was clear that no one else in the groups, save for Fletcher, had made it that far into the building. They did not have time to admire the enormous, cathedral-like room. Bodies and weapons from a former Talon Company team were scattered across the floor. Most of them had been crushed to death. As Jackrum neared the end of the hallway, an enormous green set of legs blocked their view. Jackrum waved at his squad and they all crouched. None of them said a thing, but he knew what they were all thinking, and he could see their faces.

A behemoth. The rarest and most mysterious of the supermutants. Giant monsters standing up to twenty feet tall, the lumbering titans were oddities of the wasteland. Too stupid to rule, but too powerful to die. Many myths and tales existed to explain why a select few of the supermutants were so huge. Everything from simple irradiation to black magic. Jackrum's own personal opinion was that some of them just didn't stop growing. The smart mercs avoided them. The stupid ones didn't live long enough to learn the lesson.

As for those in Jackrum's position…

He sat back and sighed, watching the colossus stomp around the inside of the dome. Even from his vantage point, Jackrum could feel the floor shaking. Every so often, it would let out a great bellow, making the walls rumble. The veteran pulled out another cigarette, using the butt of his last one to light it. The squad sat patiently, waiting for instructions. Fletcher moved forward and sat down beside him.

"I can take it down."

The monster roared, causing the entire team to clutch their weapons tighter. Jackrum blew a smoke ring. "You're good kid. But no three-round burst is going to drop that thing. We all line up and shoot it, it'll stomp us flat."

He peered out across the rotunda at the other three entrances, a plan forming in his head. "Fletcher?"

"Yeah?"

Jackrum pointed at the scaffolding which crawled up one wall. "Can you get up there?"

The boy gave the rickety platforms a brief examination. "Easy."

"Good. Get up there. When I give you the signal, take its eyes, and keep it busy."

The boy waited until the behemoth was facing the other direction, then darted out of cover and circled the edge of the dome until it brought him to the base of the scaffolding. He clambered up, scaling it easily. Back in the hallway, Jackrum turned to the rest of the group. He picked out two mercs, one with an assault rifle, the other with a shotgun and a hunting rifle.

"When I say, you two are going to jump out a head for the doorway on the left." He picked another three, "You guys head for the doorway on the right."

He turned to the last three. "You guys are heading straight across the hall."

"Then what?"

"Then shoot it till it gets too close to you." Jackrum said, puffing on his cigarette. "If it gets too close, back into the hallway and wait. The other three teams will pick up the slack. We'll keep it going in circles until it dies of blood loss. Hopefully noone'll get killed."

"That's a complicated plan, Sarge."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Jackrum snarled, "Go charge it head-on. See how long you last."

The merc looked doubtfully at the hulking giant and shook his head.

"That's what I thought."

Jackrum stepped out and waved at the Wanderer. The boy had made it all the way to the top of the scaffolding. He fired a few rounds at the thing to get its attention. The bullets did no more than break it's tough skin, but it was irritating enough to cause the Behemoth to look up at him. That's when the Wanderer let loose six rounds in neat bursts, taking the abomination's eyes.

The behemoth roared in anguish and charged into the scaffolding, causing the ancient structure to crumble and collapse around it.

Watching the mutants movements carefully, he ordered each team out and watched them cross the floor with relative ease. When all four fireteams were in their respective hallways, he opened fire and they followed suit. While the mutant was distracted by the sudden waves of lead, Jackrum looked up, searching for Fletcher. The boy was still on the ceiling, bracing himself in the arching stone designs of the domed roof.

"Hold on!" Jackrum shouted. The Wanderer threw him a salute, watching as the blinded mutant tripped and trampled its way through the corpses, being fired on by all directions. It managed to hear Jackrum's shout, however, and leaped towards the small entrance, feeling blindly for the open set of double doors.

"Back up!" Jackrum ordered, pushing his companions back. The light was blocked out entirely as the mutant's arm snaked through the narrow corridor, grasping at his team. It's giant fingers closed around one of the mercs, knocking Jackrum to the floor. The old veteran turned and watched as the merc was crushed in the abomination's giant fist.

He scrambled to his feet, pulled out a frag grenade, and ran forward, wedging it in the dead merc's armour. It exploded as the fist withdrew, leaving behind an enormous green finger the size of Jackrum's arm. The Mutant's bellow of triumph turned to one of pain. The Veteran followed it back to the entrance as it dropped its catch and got to its feet. It rose, roaring in anger and clutching its wounded hand. The other three teams had grown more confidant with the small victory, and to his horror he saw one group of mercs edging their way into the giant circular room.

"Don't get cocky!" the veteran shouted, his voice lost in the gunfire. The team ignored him and spread out into the room. The mutant, sensing the change in the amount and concentration of the incoming bullets, charged wildly at the exposed team.

"Fletcher!" Jackrum shouted in desperation.

The boy leapt, drawing his combat knife, falling a good twenty feet, onto the behemoth. His knife dug into the behemoth's back as it reached the team. The monster's back arched as the boy slid down, his knife leaving a long gash. It stumbled backwards, Jackrum's mercs forgotten. The boy let go as he neared the small of the mutant's back, and jumped easily to the floor. He charged forward, between the monster's legs and joined Jackrum at the far end of the room. They both watched the monster collapse backwards onto its back.

"Grenades!" Jackrum ordered. The dozen mercs surrounding the creature all reached for their fragmentation grenades. A collective clatter echoed throughout the dome as dozens of grenades landed all around the beast.

Jackrum stepped back into the hallway and waited for the explosions to die away. A few pieces of shrapnel buried themselves in the wall opposite him.

The Behemoth's corpse was a mess. One of its legs had come off completely, and several of its ribs were exposed to the open air. Chunks of flesh were missing all over its body, and its glazed eyes stared blankly at the hole in the ceiling, unmoving. Clearly one of the explosions had hit something vital. An enormous pool of blood was spreading from the dismembered corpse.

Jackrum ignored the smell and gathered his team together. There was collective whooping and cheering as they examined their latest kill. A dead behemoth looked really good on a merc's resume. He was about to order them to move out, when one of the mercs pulled Fletcher aside.

"Who the fuck are you" the man demanded.

"Former Brotherhood." The boy answered.

"Bullshit." The merc replied angrily, "I've seen Brotherhood fight. You do shit they can't. Who are you?"

"What does it matter?" Jackrum demanded, "He's on our side. Let it go."

"I don't trust him." the merc replied. "He's lying. He ain't Brotherhood."

Fletcher looked to Jackrum for instructions, his expression telling the old sergeant that if things went south, none of the mercs would survive. A few of the group caught the expression, and read it correctly.

"Alright…" Jackrum sighed theatrically. "I didn't want to have to tell you this, but he's a specialist. Brought in from out west to see that we do this job properly. And make sure none of us take the loot and fuck off." He puffed on his cigarette. "I wouldn't fuck with him if I were you."

The dumber mercs stared at Fletcher in awe. The smarter ones still looked unsure.

"He's a little young." One of them pointed out.

"He knows his shit." Jackrum replied evenly.

"I thought he was brought in with the new recruits…" another merc said.

Jackrum turned on him. "I'm sorry, should I have paraded him around Fort Bannister for you? Hello everyone! This guy's name is Fletcher! He's here cos you guys can't do your own damned jobs!"

"They're right, though." Fletcher said. He turned and addressed the group at large. "My employers are worried that the Lone Wanderer is after our package."

_That _got their attention. _That _silenced them. The entire group suddenly looked fearful. Jackrum smiled to himself, noting how the team had discreetly drawn closer together. All eyes were suddenly searching the large room for any sign of movment.

"I'm here to stop him if he appears." Fletcher explained.

"Jackrum, you weren't going to tell us?" one of the mercs demanded. "Christ. I don't want to deal with the Lone Wanderer."

The old sergeant grinned at him, "Ignorance is bliss. Now you're going to spend the entire trip looking over your shoulder." He sniffed. "Not much point though. You don't see the Lone Wanderer, he just guns you down."

"He's invisible!" one of the dumber mercs exclaimed, addressing the group at large, "He just melts into thin air. And he can't get hit. My mate Ricky heard it from Garcia. Said his brother saw it happen. A group unloaded at him and he vanished into thin air. Not even a trace of blood. Appeared behind them and took them all down no trouble. Noone left alive. He's silent. Like a ghost! You won't even know he's killed you till you're already dead. You won't even hear the gunshot."

"Yeah," one of the other mercs said, "but Ricky's full of shit. Says he saw aliens. And if there was no one left alive, how did Garcia's friend live to tell about it?"

The dumb one opened his mouth, stumped. Jackrum grinned. The entire argument, his attention had been focused on Fletcher, who had silently moved around to stand right behind the group. The boy cleared his throat, causing the dumb one to yelp. The others tensed, but held their fire.

"Anyone can move silently." The Wanderer explained to them. "The Lone Wanderer has a piece of equipment called a Chinese Stealth Suit. It renders him almost invisible to the naked eye. Completely invisible if he sticks to the shadows. As for dodging bullets, that's speed, agility, and experience. You don't hear the gunshot because he's using a silenced assault rifle. The only one in the wasteland. He acquired it while on an… expedition in the Pitt. He's smoke and mirrors. Nothing more. Strip all that away and you're left with a simple target. He goes down like anyone else."

The group looked at him, stunned.

"Unlike Garcia's friend, I know my enemy." Fletcher told them, "and if he comes knocking, I _will _take him down."

"That's enough. Let's move." Jackrum ordered, "Mister Fletcher, you seem to know what you're doing. Take the rear and watch for ghosts."

"Hang on a second." The boy disappeared behind the behemoth's corpse. Jacrum caught the faint noise of a knife slicing leather, and the kid reappeared carrying a mininuke. He handed it to one of the mercs saying: "Always loot the corpses. Could come in handy."

It took some time for the team to find the right route; a single nondescript office door with a flight of stairs leading down into the bowels of the Capitol Building.

They exited into the hall of columns, a long hallway full of statues and tributes to the country's previous presidents. It was a large space with a high ceiling, collapsed columns and rubble, and altogether too many shadows.

Jackrum motioned to Fletcher and pointed up at an upper walkway. It would make an excellent sniper perch, and the Veteran wanted a pair of eyes up there. He turned to the rest of the group and picked three out. "Watch our backs. Everyone else, hold tight."

A few moments later, Fletcher reappeared, toting his sniper rifle. "There's a group of humans down at the end of the hall." He reported, "Talon mercs. Dug in tight."

As one, the entire squad breathed a sigh of relief.

"Stay here. I'm going to make contact." Jackrum ordered.

He moved forward, through the shadows and debris. As he neared the Talon outpost, he was forced to step and sometimes crawl over more and more dead mutants. At last, he crouched behind a fallen pillar and caught sight of the outpost itself. The mutant bodies had been piled in concert with the fallen pillars, creating a tangled mess which would slow any advancing enemy forces to a crawl, giving sharpshooters plenty of time to pick them off. The final stretch was clear, but the mutant bodies had been piled against the walls forming a funnel, a killzone. Beyond it was twenty yards of clear ground, and sandbag fortifications with an active turret. Three mercs were on watch. Jackrum could make out a dozen more, lazing around. All of them had their weapons nearby.

The fallen pillar exploded, chips flying as it was raked by minigun fire. Jackrum ducked behind it and tried to keep the pebble shower from going down the back of his neck.

"Die you fuckin' mutie!" he heard a merc snarl.

"Friendly fire!" he shouted back, "Friendly fire! I'm human, you ass!"

"Talon company?" another, far more intelligent sounding voice demanded.

"Yessir." Jackrum shouted, "I'm going to stand up. Don't shoot me."

There was a moment in which Jackrum could hear the sound of whispered orders, then the voice said, "Okay, you're clear. Walk forward slowly."

Jackrum stood up and walked into the light. Several rifles were trained on him, but the ones holding them looked experienced enough to know what trigger discipline meant. Those who didn't weren't anywhere near any weapons.

A light was shone on Jackrum's face and the intelligent voice started to laugh. "Sergeant Jackrum! I'm glad to see you!"

It was removed and the merc moved forward, meeting him halfway. He turned out to be a dark-haired boy, barely older than Fletcher. He was wearing a broad smile, and carrying an assault rifle. He shook Jackrum warmly by the hand.

"The name's Turner. We've been stuck down here for four days, Sarge. My guys need a drink. We're nearly out of water."

"Who set up the defense?" Jackrum asked, "And where's your squad leader?"

"He bugged out, Sarge." Turner sniffed, "Ran for the surface. Got stomped on by the Behemoth. I took charge, set up the defense. But I've been bleeding troops, supplies and ammunition."

Jackrum glanced over to the corner, where a dozen Talon Company bodies had been laid out respectfully.

"We held them off so far, but we weren't going to last." Turner continued, his voice growing manic, "Do you have a cigarette? I'm dying for a fucking cigarette!"

Jackrum produced the pack, took a few for himself, and handed it over. The boy received it gratefully and instead of stowing it away or taking one himself, he passed it out among his troops. Jackrum heard the clatter of weapons as the rest of his squad, led by Fletcher, stepped into the light. The trapped survivors began to hoot and cheer.

"How did you get past the Behemoth, Sarge?"

"Brains kid. The muties fight stupid. You fight smart like you did _here_, you can take'em." Jackrum motioned out at the defenses, "You did a good job, Turner."

The young merc beamed.

"Listen," Jackrum said, "I'm here to retrieve a package from the conference room. You guys stay dug in, and we'll take you with us on our way out."

Turner's smile faltered slightly, "What's the package?"

"Classified." Fletcher interrupted, walking up to them, "Sarge, can I talk to you for a moment?"

Jackrum glanced backwards at his troops. The two squads had fused into one giant mass of people, all of whom were occupied with distributing cigarettes and other necessities.

Fletcher lead him through a door and onto the top landing of a stairwell.

"Listen," the Wanderer said, "I know you aren't too fond of me, but that FEV virus which Burke showed us, that's extremely dangerous. It belongs with the Brotherhood of steel. As does the Cure."

"Burke gave me a job to do…"

"Burke is not the sort of person who should have access to the FEV virus." Fletcher replied, "He tried to pay me to detonate the bomb in the center of Megaton. That's why I broke his nose."

Jackrum stared.

"He's dangerous. He's smart, and he doesn't care what happens to the Capital Wasteland or anyone in it, you included. I don't care what you think of me, but we can't let him keep it. Or the Cure."

"What do you have in mind?" Jackrum asked.

The Wanderer sighed, "I'm strongly tempted to kill you all, find the Cure myself, and make it disappear."

Jackrum replied quickly, "but that also leaves the FEV virus in the hands of Burke. He'd find out what happened, and then he'd go after the cure. Probably by letting it get into the hands of the Brotherhood, then using his contact to release the FEV virus inside the Citadel. Then all he'd have to do is take us in and clean house. The Talon Company gets brand new headquarters, and since the outcasts don't bother, we'd be the most powerful group in the wasteland."

Fletcher stared.

"It'd be great if we could get that robot working…" Jackrum added, "I bet even you can't stand against that thing."

The Wanderer's hands twitched, drawing towards his combat knife.

"You don't want that either." Jackrum told him triumphantly, "I'd be willing to bet Burke's behind your daddy's Purifier blowing up, too. You need to get Burke, the Cure, and the Virus, all in one go. That means going back to Fort Bannister with me. I'll help by getting the men not to shoot. You let us get paid, you deal with Burke, and you walk away with both the cure, and the virus. My boys are alive. I'm alive. You have what you want… everyone comes out on top…except Burke."

The Wanderer studied him for a long time, then nodded. "That's acceptable. Retreive your men."

Turner directed Jackrum's squad down a second flight of stairs. With Fletcher in the rear, they proceeded through other hallways and down yet another flight. The trip delivered them into the two-story Conference room. A high pedestal had been placed at the center of the far wall, with rings of seats all around it. Behind the pedestal was a single unmarked door. The conference room was empty. All the mutants had traveled backwards to combat the Talon Company Mercs, leaving the room unguarded.

"Okay…" Jackrum pulled out a small map and consulted it. "According to Burke, the vault should be beneath us…through that door. Keep your eyes out, boys." He lead them across the hall and through the second door. This lead down a narrow set of stairs and into a short passageway. It became rapidly obvious why the Supermutants had not ventured further; the far end of the hall had been blocked by debris.

Jackrum sighed. "Guess we'd better start digging."

"Where's that mininuke?" Fletcher demanded. One of the Mercs produced it and handed it to him. "Everyone get clear." The boy ordered. The squad pwent back up the staircase and waited in the conference room. A few moments later the floor bucked and sagged. Jackrum could feel the air rushing through the small door to fill the void left by the explosion. Fletcher walked up the stairs and waved at them, "It's clear."

The roof above the blast point was sagging dangerously, but on the flipside, Jackrum did not have the resources to spend three days digging out the tunnel.

Their passage was blocked yet again by a large security door. A console was attached to it. Fletcher walked up, tapped a few keys, and examined the flashing screen. He turned back to Jackrum, "I can hack it, but it's going to take a little while."

Jackrum nodded. He turned to his men and handed out orders, "Everyone, settle in."

Fletcher settled himself down in front of the console, a pad of paper and a pencil beside him. The Mercs all took seats in the hall and waited. Jackrum set fifteen minute watches, placed in the conference room, mostly to keep them on their toes. It wasn't likely that any Supermutants would get down there. They'd have to fight their way through at least on other group of Talon Company Mercs, and they'd run into trouble with Turner's group. The young man had set up an excellent set of defenses, and so long as supplies lasted, he could probably hold off a hundred muties. Jackrum grinned; the young merc reminded the Veteran of himself. He lit himself a cigarette and settled in for the wait.

After half an hour passed, Jackrum rose and walked over to Fletcher. The boy had spent the last five minutes staring at the screen in dead silence.

"How's it coming along?"

"Give it another ten minutes." The boy reported. Jackrum glanced at the screen. Words and letters were interspersed within the long, nonsensical lines of code.

"How can you tell?"

The boy pointed to the bottom right of the screen. Jackrum read: L###R#Y

"I'm pretty sure there's an 'I' in there, too."

"Liberty." Jackrum said, his voice sour.

The Wanderer stared.

"What the hell else would a government like that one use? Something patriotic and central to the American Ideal."

Fletcher tapped a few keys and hit the enter button. The enormous steel door slid open revealing a barren room with a single table in it, bathed in a pool of white light. Sitting upon it was a small briefcase. Jackrum walked forward and opened it gently. The immediate area was bathed in a soft blue glow, reminding him of a Nuka-Cola Quantum bottle. Heavily insulated within layers of soft gauze was a glowing blue vial, slightly larger than the FEV vial Burke had shown him. It was reinforced in a heavy steel case. Obviously whomever had put it here had wanted it preserved.

"Sarge?" one of the mercs asked. Jackrum shut the case with a snap.

He turned, "Alright. That's the Package. Let's go home."

* * *

Jackrum entered Mister Burke's office, following commander Jabsco. Fletcher filed in behind him.

"Welcome back!" burke greeted them jovially. "I do hope you've brought good news."

Jackrum laid the suitcase out in front of the man and backed away, giving Fletcher a clear shot. Burke reverently removed his glasses. He reached out with two trembling hands and opened the case. His beady eyes glittered in the blue light. He reached into the case and gently lifted up the vial, the shadows swaying in concert with the movements of the vial.

"_Well done Sergeant Jackrum_!" he turned the vial over in his hands, examining it from every angle. "_Well done_!"

"Where's the FEV virus?" Fletcher asked.

"Oh, yes," Burke glanced up at him, "I nearly forgot about you." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol, shooting the young man in the head before he had a chance to react. The Wanderer's head snapped backwards, the momentum throwing him against the back wall, where he slid to the floor and lay still. He was still alive, however, his eyes were fluttering madly. Blood trickled down from the bullet hole in his forehead, running into his left eye and down his cheek.

Burke set the vial back down in its case and holstered his pistol back underneath his pristine dinner jacket. He looked at Jackrum's genuinely shocked expression. The Veteran was staring down at the boy, trying to keep the fear from overrunning his features

"Sergeant, you are a simple mercenary. You were given a job a week ago. Find recruits for the Talon Company."

"Yessir." It was a useful reply. Jackrum wasn't about to play his own hand. The fact that he hadn't been shot himself told him that Burke didn't know everything.

"I suspect you never would have guessed that your traveling companion was the Lone Wanderer."

_None at all sir_. Jackrum almost said it. The lie nearly came out. He managed to bite it back. The reply was too neat. Too tidy. It would give him away. Instead he feigned surprise, looked up at Burke, and said in a tone of absolute shock: "He…what?"

Burke stared at him. Jackrum could feel the man's gaze reading him, trying to sense whether or not he was lying. Burke was good. But Jackrum was better. At last, the man relented and nodded. He made his way around the desk. Jackrum watched in genuine astonishment as Burke, with a look of utter and absolute hatred on his face, slammed his foot down upon the boy's nose. The sound of breaking cartilage echoed around the room, making Jabsco grimace.

"Don't blame yourself, Sergeant Jackrum." Burke said calmly, straightening his jacket. He smiled down at the boy. "There will be no retribution. You are too useful. And a simple profligate such as yourself would never have seen it. The Wanderer is devious. Cunning.

"But… the Wanderer's got blond hair and blue eyes…"

"Those can be changed."

"But…" Jackrum motioned down at his wounded companion. "He's too young."

"For most of us, age and experience go hand in hand. Not so for the Wanderer." Burke smiled, "He has been many places. He's seen many things. He's changed many things and been changed himself. Would you like to know the most interesting change, Sergeant?"

Jackrum shook his head. "Not really."

"He cannot die." burke explained. "Not easily. All he requires is sunlight and radiation and he will be restored to perfect health. No matter how badly mangled he is. This headshot brought him down, but it will not keep him down. But that's okay. There are ways of dealing with that."

They both stared down at the twitching figure.

"There is a vault in the wasteland. Vault number one-hundred and six. Anyone can enter, but there is no way to open the door from the inside. Jabsco?"

The Talon Company Commander saluted.

"See to it." Burke ordered, "If the wanderer starts to heal, break him again. Whatever it takes to keep him down."

The Commander picked up Fletcher's limp form and dragged it from the small room. Burke took a seat behind the desk once again. He reached down and tossed a large sack onto it.

"Your payment, Sergeant. Six thousand, five-hundred."

Jackrum picked it up wordlessly and heard the jangle of caps. He nodded at Burke and turned to leave.

"There is another, much larger sum of money I believe is owed to you." The man said. Jackrum turned back.

"A sum of twenty-five thousand caps has been deposited with Mister Bannon. He runs the Potomac Attire shop in Rivet city. You may withdraw any amount you please, whenever you please. It's the finder's fee for delivering the Lone Wanderer to us. Go and buy yourself a drink, Mister Jackrum. You've done the world a great service. I suspect that when my employer's army arrives, he will want to thank you in person. "

* * *

**The Behemoth is overpowered. That's intentional. It's the difference between the writing universe, and the gaming one. My theory with behemoths is that bullets would have roughly the same effect on them as paintballs or small BBs would have on us. If we get shot enough, or get one in a lucky place, it'll eventually kill us, but it would take a while for us to die, and in the meantime we could wreak some serious havoc.**

**The Turret setup in the hall of Columns is actually in the middle, but I moved it to the far end.**

**The door they enter in the conference room doesn't exist either. I added it in. Same with the vault.**

**I also changed the hacking up a little bit because while it works in-game, it doesn't make sense within the context of the world. That, and I like Jason to have his faults, and areas where his skills are somewhat lacking. I was never very good at hacking. I'd always have to restart the console…**

**And Sarah's section is coming. I just didn't want this chapter to be too much longer than the others.**


	15. Chapter 15

Aqua Vitae 15

A man approached the trio of Brotherhood soldiers as they neared the Ark and Dove cathedral. He walked at an awkward pace, tripping over the smallest topographical quirks, as if unused to his own body. His head was permanently tilted, forced whimsically to the side in order to make room for a large fungal growth, nearly the size of his own head. Roughly the shape of a human tooth, it's roots were buried deep into the vulnerable flesh between his neck and shoulder It was pulsing and growing, even as she watched.

Sarah motioned to Colvin and Gallows, and all three of them raised their weapons.

"You seek the Mother Punga?" the man asked. Trying to keep her gaze off the growth on his shoulder, Sarah examined the rest of him. Tribal painting adorned his body. Primitive rags made safe the basic decencies, but he was otherwise exposed to the cold mist of the swamp.

"We're looking for the tribals." Sarah said.

The man extended an unsteady hand and pointed up at the church, "We welcome newcomers. We have been made one with the Mother Punga." He intoned, directing their attention to the ugly node on his shoulder, "It is bliss…she has shown us the way…Join with us…" the growth pulsed violently and he jerked and tipped forward, dropping to the ground, clearly dead.

"Oh…Christ…" Colvin murmured. He moved to examine the body, but Gallows pulled him back.

"We're here for the G.E.C.K." the sniper reminded him. "Nothing else."

They moved along the cobblestone wall surrounding the cathedral, Sarah in the lead. Colvin followed her, clutching his rifle to his chest. She could hear his heavy breathing through the filters in his helmet. Sarah kept moving forward, albeit much more slowly. She kept her eyes on the ghastly architecture of the church. It may have been her imagination, but the frail beams of the broken roof appeared to be pulsing, bowing inwards and outwards, ever so slowly. It gave the impression the building was breathing.

The giant iron gates of the entrance had been tossed from their hinges, lying in the overgrown courtyard, bent, twisted, and rusted out.

The team moved through the courtyard to the imposing inner set of double doors, Colvin and Gallows keeping their rifles up. Sarah pushed on one of the doors, but it was heavily built and firmly locked. Gallows pulled her aside, and rammed it with his shoulder. The metal frame bent slightly under the pressure of his power armour, and the wood shuddered and bent, but did not yield. He backed away a little, and charged, throwing all of his weight into it. The wooden doors exploded into splinters, spilling the soldier into the church. Colvin followed behind him, and halted, catching sight of the interior.

"Oh…" he moaned, backing away, "We're in hell."

Sarah followed him, took a look inside. She was forced to agree. Hanging against the stained glass window of the opposite wall was a giant version of the punga plant they'd seen growing out of the tribal man's neck. It's roots were twisting and writhing slowly, feelers spreading even as they watched.

Sarah stared up at the abomination. Its roots had torn into the stone walls of the church, wrapped themselves around the benches. They were interwoven with the steel frames of the stained-glass windows. Man-sized secondary and tertiary pulsating salient nodules bubbled from every surface, each one with their own array of writhing feelers. Humans hung, draped awkwardly from the larger nodes. The writhing roots had embedded themselves in the bodies of the corpses, weaving around and among the flesh and the bone, spreading web-like tendrils underneath the skin. Favored entry points appeared to be at the neck, the stomach, armpits, and the inner thighs of its willing victims. A few of the bodies were so entrenched that the line between man and plant was blurred beyond recognition. A few brown leaves sprouted from the face of one corpse.

"Hello, Travelers!" a cheerful voice exclaimed, directing the trio's attentions once again to the central growth. A man was hanging from it, roots protruding from pus-drenched sores all over his body. He had a friendly face, the sort which she could easily imagine meeting in a bar, telling tall tales of the wild, woolly wasteland. Lambasted across his face, so perfectly kept that it did not even look real, was a magnificent moustache. Upon his forehead was a sign which Sarah knew full well; three neat circular scars, 5.56mm bullet holes; Jason had tried to kill this man, and he had failed. "The name's Tobar! How are you?" His pale protruding tendrils wriggled excitedly.

"We're in hell…" Colvin moaned, backing away further. "We're in hell. We're in hell. We're in hell…" he died away into quiet prayers.

"Are you…okay?" Sarah asked, suppressing her gag reflex.

"I am dandy!" Tobar smiled, "Come join me… it's blissful…"

"What's your name?"

"Tobar the Ferryman!"

"The brain mentioned Charon." Gallows said quietly.

"We seek the G.E.C.K." Sarah called out.

"It's not here!" Tobar replied, "They took it!"

"…Who?" Sarah asked cautiously.

"The swampfolk." Tobar smiled at them. "Join us!"

Perhaps it was Sarah's imagination, but the feelers on the ground were slowly changing direction, Brownian motion moving them closer and closer to the three new warm bodies. She took a step backwards. "Did you…already use it?"

"Mother Punga is growing of her own volition! She needs no help. Come here!"

One of the roots suddenly picked up speed and slithered towards Sarah, oozing through the tangled weeds and roots which covered the floor. Sarah pulled out her pistol and aimed it at the root.

"Don't hurt her!" the ferryman exclaimed joyfully. His chest began to warp and twist, "You'll only make her angry!"

To Sarah's horror, the skin on the man's bare chest warped and stretched, then parted as a new root wriggled out, pale and slimy with unknowable ichor. It pulsed green, making the man giggle even as it wrapped itself around his leg and pulled him closer to the larger tentacles. The plant seemed to twitch in anticipation as it drew him towards the center of the growth.

"Where are the Swampfolk?" Gallows demanded, stomping heavily on one of the roots.

"In the fog…" Tobar told them, the abomination's tentacles slowly winding him in. "You should stay here… It's not safe out there. Ug-Qaultoth the great worm knows you're here. It'll send them. And then you'll die. Stay with me!" he began to twist, reaching for them, and swinging form the writhing roots. "Stay here! Stay here!"

Sarah cried out sharply as an intense pain shot up here leg. She was thrown to one knee as something punctured the delicate flesh at the back of her knee. She looked backwards in horror. One of the pulsing tendrils was coiling and squirming, working its way further in.

Gallows' combat knife sliced downwards through the thin root, hitting the stones beneath with a sharp clang. Sarah yanked frantically at the embedded root, pulling it out. It came free with a pop, still squirming. Bright red blood trickled out of the wound.

Colvin pulled her to her feet and dragged her towards the door. The roots around them sprang to life, shooting towards the trio. Gallows' large knife whipped back and forth, the plant's long exploring strands falling to the floor. As Colvin dragged her, Sarah pulled out her laser pistol and fired at the abomination, leaving enormous black scorch marks, and filling the air with smoke and the smell of burning plant matter. Tobar heaved in pain, letting out a piercing eldritch cry of anguish. At the moment, the swarming roots stiffened, giving Gallows the break he needed to escape. He followed Colvin and Sarah out into the Church's courtyard and slammed the doors shut behind him. They watched as the roots tangled in the beams of the roof stiffened, cracking the old wood and causing the structure to collapse. Within it, Tobar was still screaming in pain.

"We have to shut him up!" Gallows told them calmly, "They'll hear him."

"How about we just get the fuck out of here!" Colvin replied, shaking. "Fuck the G.E.C.K. I want to go home!"

In one motion, Gallows' sniper rifle was brought to bear… on Colvin's face.

"What are you doing?" Sarah demanded, staring at Gallows' helmet, trying to gauge him.

"Semper Fidelis." The spec. ops. soldier said mechanically, "Colvin, you have been given a task by an elder of the Brotherhood of Steel. You _will _see it through."

"There's a difference between Bellyaching and desertion, Gallows!" Sarah argued, wrestling herself to her feet. Colvin himself had gone quiet, staring in shock down the barrel of the sniper rifle. In the church, Tobar's screams had shrunk to quiet whimpers.

"Not here." The sniper told them, "Here we can't afford either."

"I'm not about to walk out on Sarah, or anyone else." Colvin promised, his voice quiet, but strong. "I'm just scared."

"So am I." Sarah reassured him.

Gallows' head tilted to the side. Apparently satisfied, he lowered his rifle and walked over to the twisted gates, as if nothing had happened. "Dusk." He reported, "Fog closing in. We need to find shelter."

"_Dusk_?" Colvin exclaimed, staring up at the sky , "How can it be dusk already? We've only just got here!"

Sarah followed his gaze up to the ominous sky. The sun's rays disbursed through the mists, turning the sky above into an angry faded red color. Gallows was right; once again the sun was on the wrong side of the sky.

"The land wants it to be dusk." Gallows intoned.

Sarah and Colvin exchanged glances and stared nervously at the back of their companion's head.

"Gallows? You alright?"

"We need to move."

"Look at the fog!" Colvin cried.

Sarah followed his gaze. A great wall of mist was pouring in from the swamp in great tendrils, overtaking the landscape and swallowing the rocks, trees, and detritus of the plateau. Dozens of dark shapes, large and small could be seen; shadows marching ever closer to the trio, yet staying behind the foggy barrier. Thin, malnourished shapes darted back and forth behind slower, shambling monstrosities. And behind it all could be heard, faint but discernable, the laughter of a child. A low murmur could be heard, the steady drone of quiet voices on the cusp of hearing. The blood red sky grew grey. As cold and distant as the mist of the dead marshes. Behind them, the wooden doors of the church splintered. The questing punga roots, still hungering for new blood, came bursting through the cracks, absorbing the old wood.

Gallows grabbed Sarah and dragged her south, towards the fjords. They scrambled to the edge of the cliff, and stared down into a river of flowing mist. It swept out into the open ocean, blocking their escape. She stared in desperation at the distant lighthouse. It was a relatively short distance away, but it might as well have been in the capital wasteland for all the good it's unassailable walls would do them.

"North." Gallows ordered. They turned back towards the church, just in time to see it swallowed by the fog. It swept across the barren ground towards them. As it reached them, Sarah grabbed her comrades' hands.

Then they were engulfed by the morass. The mist was thick, wet, and cold as the grave. Sarah felt it soak through her recon armour. Droplets condensed on her face and in her hair. She kept a tight grip on both Colvin and Gallows, though the white blank fog was so oppressive she could barely see them.

"Sarah?" Colvin whispered.

"I'm here." She squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"Shh." Gallows hissed. He pulled on her hand and she followed, not knowing where he was leading them. As they stumbled blindly through the fog, she began to hear sounds all around them, some quiet, some not. Depraved laughter from her left, heavy footsteps on her right.

An eldritch voice began to call out: "This here's our swamp, outsiders!"

"Yeh don't belong here!" Another yokel answered.

Heavy footsteps began to speed towards them.

"_I'mma eat well tonight!_"

Sarah was thrown to the ground as a huge shape burst from the mist. There was a clang and cry of pain from Colvin. She scrambled to her feet, pistol drawn, searching the mist, but the knight-captain was gone. She felt the comforting cold steel of Gallows' armour at her back.

"Colvin?" She called out.

"They got a girly!" Something cried in guttural delight.

Gallows pulled her to his helmet. "Run." He said.

"What?"

"Run. Now." He raised his sniper rifle and began to fire into the air. The fog around them exploded in anguish.

"Found'yew!" a voice screeched.

Gallows gave Sarah a push, and she half ran, half limped away as fast as her wounded leg would carry her. Behind her, the sounds of screaming and gunfire echoed across the moor. Gallows' sniper rifle boomed repeatedly, and she could hear the yokels screaming in pain. Yet for every shot issued from his rifle, ten answered, and the steady crack of his sniper rifle was soon overwhelmed by the chaotic sound of shotguns shells, hunting rifles, and other guns she couldn't recognize. The sniper's shots grew fewer and fewer, until they stopped completely, cut short by the boom of a double-barreled shotgun.

She slipped on a wet stone and landed heavily against a rock wall, recognizing it as the side of the church. The stones crumbled even as she leaned against them. Writhing roots felt their way towards her, as determined as ever to claim another victim. She scurried away, not in any intentional direction, but determined to escape the forces after her. As she ran, she could hear the child's voice again:

_With those dear hearts, and gentle people who live and love in my home town…_

A second, larger rock loomed out of the mist and she stumbled over it, catching sight of wooden boards. She ran for them, the sight of the simple straight lines and bent nails was as reassuring to her then as the sight of a life buoy to a drowning man. She stumbled onto the rough boards, hearing them creak under her weight. They formed a simple platform, which jutted out a little way over the edge of the cliff. She could hear the frothing tidal waters churning far below her.

"There ya are!"

Sarah turned, raising her pistol. A man - it had to be a man- stood before her, twenty feet away, somehow visible through the thick fog. She could make out his skinny arms, matted straw hair, and horrible jutting paunch. As he laughed, his open mouth revealed a few black, chipped and malformed teeth.

In his hands was a pump-action repeater rifle. His grip told her he knew how to use it.

"Ah found yew girly!" he screeched.

Sarah opened up on him, firing beam after beam of lancing red death. She watched as the lasers splashed across him, leaving long burnt streaks in his flesh. The cretin stumbled backwards, covering his eyes.

She kept pulling the trigger until the energy cell had run dry. Her aggressor lowered his protective arms and glared at her, a lazy eye wandering off in the direction of the lighthouse

"I'll kill yew!" he screamed, raising his rifle.

Sarah shut her eyes and imagined sitting with her father in the citadel. There was a gunshot. At roughly the same moment, pain exploded along the right side of her head, and she tumbled off the edge of the wooden planks.

* * *

Thirty-one thousand, five hundred caps. What Jackrum couldn't do with thirty-one thousand, five-hundred caps…. As he sat at a table in the corner of Gary's Galley, Jackrum mulled this over. Eventually he gave up and decided to think about all the things he _could _do with a sum of money that large. There were so many more of them.

"Jackrum."

The veteran looked up to see a Rivet City security guard standing in front of him. He motioned down at the table, leaving a trail of smoke from the cigarette in his hand. "Morning Joey."

The security guard planted himself down opposite Jackrum. He motioned to the blonde waitress and she bought him a beer.

"So I've been checking the files for 'Jason Howlett' like you asked." The guard told him. "I couldn't find a thing. I have contacts in other cities…"

"Don't bother. He's the Lone Wanderer." Jackrum muttered, picking up his beer.

The guard named Joey stared. "Jesus… really?"

"Yep." Jackrum nodded. "He told me himself. Then my boss shot him in the head."

"_The Lone Wanderer is dead_?"

"Not so loud!" Jackrum snapped, glancing at the other tables, "But yes. No. I dunno. He's out of it."

Joey stared.

"You know," Jackrum took a long hopeless drag on his cigarette, "A long time ago I promised myself that the only thing I'd sell my soul for would be a decent afterlife."

"You sold him out…"

"Not exactly."

"How much?" the guard asked through gritted teeth.

"Joey…" Jackrum stared. "I've known you for years. I didn't-"

"How much, Jonathon?"

"Thirty-one thousand five hundred."

The guard frowned. "And all the good things he did for the wastes? Were they worth thirty grand?"

"He killed a lot of my friends!" Jackrum replied, though his heart wasn't in the response, and they both knew it.

"Yeah, well… not all of us are from the Talon Company." The guard told him, "He's not much liked around _here_ because of what he did to Harkness, but a lot of people are going to get very angry at you."

"Only if you tell them."

The guard stared thoughtfully into his drink. "You'rea good man, Jackrum. You don't deserve that kind of hatred."

"Thanks, Joey." Jackrum produced a second cigarette and lit it, using the tip of his own. He passed the smoldering fag across the table. Joey took it gratefully and they both Sat in silence, letting the smoke collect in the roof above them.

They heard the sound of a crying child. Joey's eyes lifted upwards, watching a scene unfold over Jackrum's shoulder. The old merc turned to see Tammy and her son walking down a set of stairs. When they reached the bottom, she shoved the teary-eyed child into the nearest seat, and stumbled over to the bar.

"Give me a bottle of whiskey." She ordered, pulling a small handful of caps out, "Make that two bottles. And two bowls of noodles." She laid her caps on the counter.

The cook leaned down and counted them. He looked back up at her. "You're short."

"I'll pay you back." The drunken woman insisted.

"This is a restaurant, not a bar." Gary replied, "You either pay up front, or you aren't eating here."

"Fine." Tammy announced, "Take back the bowls."

An angry silence fell upon the pre-war hangar deck as everyone stopped to listen. Jackrum watched the child, whose hungry gaze was fixed on the nearest meal.

"You know, if you have one bottle of beer instead of two whiskey, you could afford the noodles." Gary prompted as kindly as his anger could manage.

"Fuck off!"

Angela, the cook's daughter, swept by laying two more bottles of beer on Jackrum's table. She glanced back at Tammy and sighed, moving on to some other task. All the diners were wearing similar expressions. Mixtures of scorn and pity.

Gary placed the bottles down on the rough counter, and watched as Tammy picked them up and walked away. Then she caught sight of Jackrum. By that point, everyone had stopped to watch. Tammy walked over and planted both hands on the merc's table. She glared at him with unsteady bloodshot eyes. "Where's my money, Fuckface?"

"The cheque's in the mail." Jackrum replied, his gaze traveling to young James' bruised face. The child shot him a pleading look.

"Smartass!" Tammy spat. She turned on the guard sitting opposite him. "That guy owes me money."

Joey shook his head. "Take a breath, Tammy. Now's not the time."

The woman swore at him and turned to the crowd for support, She found none. Jackrum took careful note of Gary Staley, whose face showed nothing but distain, lacking even the small amount of pity which occupied the faces of some onlookers.

At last, Tammy caught on to the hostile atmosphere. She grabbed her whiskey and stomped off toward the nearest exit, yelling at James as she passed him. "Get the fuck up! We're leaving."

"Hey, kid!" Jackrum called out. The boy turned and shook his head, his expression saying it all: _She'll beat me. _He turned and ran to keep up with his mother. Jackrum turned back and stared down at the glowing tip of his cigarette. Gradually, the bustling noise of the marketplace filled up the hangar.

_Way of the wasteland…._ He told himself, _Not your business…_ _Thirty-one thousand caps. Add that to the ninety back at bannister, and you could retire early and be sitting pretty in Ten-penny Tower..._

It all seemed hollow, somehow. He would be well-off, but he wouldn't have earned his pay. The Wanderer had followed his orders, protected his squad… _trusted him_...

Corps loyalty and good pay were one thing… but the Sergeant inside of Jackrum was bristling with indignation. Fletcher, or Howlett…whatever the kid's name was, he had been in Jackrum's squad.

On the flipside, thirty thousand caps…

_And he's been slaughtering your friends for years…_ Jackrum's inner voice said.

No, it wasn't the killing of the Lone Wanderer… he decided, letting out a long stream of smoke, it was the dirty money. And the fact that he had been brought down in such a mundane fashion. Jackrum had always given the White Knight a certain amount of grudging respect, which Burke hadn't shown any signs of sharing. Many mercs and wasters alike would laugh at the idea of Talon Company Honor, but it did exist, in its own black and twisted way.

Jackrum glanced thoughtfully at Gary Staley.

Perhaps there were ways to even things out.

He rose, motioning at Joey to follow. They made their way across the Rivet City market, passing by the shops until they came to Bannon's Potomac Attire. The black man gave him a friendly greeting, shaking his hand warmly. "Welcome to Potomac Attire, Mister Rumsfeld." He said, "Would you like to make a withdrawal?"

Jackrum grunted in affirmation.

"How much?"

"All of it. The whole damned thing."

Bannon's jaw dropped. "Are you sure…?"

"Give me the fucking box!" Jackrum snapped.

Bannon's friendly manners evaporated as he stepped backwards and pushed away a pile of clothing revealing a small crate. Jackrum marched forward and opened it, checking the contents. Then he stood and grasped a handle. "Joey, get the other side of this thing."

The guard obeyed, and helped him carry it back across the hanger floor.

Jackrum laid the box down on the counter, facing Gary Staley. The old merc reached across, flicked the catches, and opened it. The cook's eyes widened.

"Thirty-one thousand, five hundred caps." Jackrum told him quietly.

"You're…just giving it to me?"

"No. This is a…down payment. That kid James comes here and gets two solid meals a day." Jackrum explained, his cigarette bobbing, "The money for the food… comes out of the box. If he needs new clothes, it comes out of the box. Medicine, out of the box. Radaway, out of the box. Anything he needs…"

"Out of the box." The cook murmured, transfixed by the sheer number of bottlecaps.

"Glad we understand one another. When he turns eighteen, you take half of what's left, and give the rest to him."

"But…" Gary spluttered, "This is enough money to last someone ten years!"

Jackrum nodded, "I'll be coming in regular to count'em up. Make sure you ain't skimming off the top."

Gary's expression soured. "I'm an honest man!"

"Good. One more thing." Jackrum leaned in close and grabbed the cook's shirt roughly, "His mum doesn't see a single cap of this money. Understand?"

Gary nodded.

Jackrum let him go and stalked off.

"Where are _you_ going?" Joey called out.

"Home." Jackrum replied. "I got a lot of cash to make up."

**Alright, so that took a while. But it's four thousand words. Twice as long as needed. It's also the major turning point in both stories. In Sarah's, it's where she loses control of the situation, and in Jackrum's, it's where he starts to gain it.**

**Anyway, good things come to those who wait. I am NOT giving up on this. That isn't even on the table. The ideas are flowing, but There's a lot of stuff going on behind the scenes, both in this story and RL, and it's taking a little while to map out. So bear with me, and we'll get this done.**


	16. Chapter 16

Aqua Vitae 16

Jackrum was shaken from restless sleep by another mercenary. The Veteran paused for a moment, staring at the dark ceiling of the Fort Bannister Barracks. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the shadowy ceiling of Fort Bannister.

"Wake up Sergeant." The merc urged. Jackrum recognized him as Turner; the young man who had set up a defense in the bowels of the capitol building. The veteran got to his feet and opened his locker to take a sip from his canteen. The young merc waited patiently while he gurgled and spat the resulting swill into a dented garbage pail. Then he straightened out his combat gear and picked up his Chinese assault rifle.

"What is it, Turner?"

"Jabsco wants to see you." The young man said sheepishly.

"Is anyone with him?" Jackrum asked, the light of suspicion flickering in the shadowy corners of his mind.

"Some man in a suit. He looked important."

"Thought so." The Veteran said grimly.

* * *

"Ahh, sergeant." Burke smiled at him, a thin trail of smoke rising from the tip of his cigarette, "Come in. Take a seat."

Jackrum glanced around the small office. Jabsco was leaning against a back wall. Burke was seated comfortably at the table. The three of them were alone. Underneath the suave man's left arm, hidden under his dinner jacket, Jackrum could make out the bulge of a pistol.

"Do you smoke?" Burke asked, pulling out a packet of expensive-looking cigarettes.

"I got my own." Jackrum pulled out his own battered packet from beneath his chestplate. He did allow the suave man to light it for him, though. There was no reason to be uncivilized.

"What can I do for you?" Jackrum asked.

Burke paused a moment, his beady eyes examining the scraggly old mercenary. "You strike me as a man with his eye on his future."

"I got my eye on my next paycheck." Jackrum corrected, tapping a small amount of ash from the end of his cigarette.

Burke granted him an indulgent smile. He said: "You're a useful man to know, Sergeant Jackrum. You're competent, you know the wasteland, and you're relatively intelligent, for a mercenary."

"Well that's real sweet of you." Jackrum said, blowing a smoke ring, "If I didn't know better I'd say you were fishing for a blowjob."

Jabsco angrily propelled himself off the wall. "_Sergeant_!"

"Relax." Jackrum soothed, "I'm strictly butter-side up."

"You have an uncivil tongue." Burke scolded.

"Yeah, but I keep it in the pocket of my other suit."

The suave man sighed, adjusting the collar of his suit. He settled into an irritating pose with his hands clasped, as if about to give a speech. "The wasteland is going places, Mister Rumsfeld. After twenty three years of oppression by the Brotherhood of Steel and more recently the Lone Wanderer, my employers finally feel that the time is ripe to make a move. It may not look like it, but the Talon Company is poised to take over the Capital Wasteland. And those at the helm with be richly rewarded for the achievement."

"And..?" Jackrum gave him a blank stare.

"I am offering you a job. Work for me as a…private consultant? Shall we say?"

"I kinda like this uniform though." Jackrum tapped his breastplate "It's black." He stared at their perturbed expressions and added: "Snazzy."

"I get the distinct impression you are having fun at my expense."

"I don't like you." Jackrum told him. "You haven't even given me a price yet."

"Name it."

"How about ten thousand caps. For starters."

"Mister Jackrum," Burke smiled warmly, "You will be instrumental in shaping the future of the entire nation. The world, possibly. Our accomplishments will be remembered for _centuries_. How does two hundred-fifty thousand caps sound?"

Jackrum squinted at him, small parts of the merc's brain fusing together. He inserted a pinky finger into his ear and wriggled it around, trying to clear it. Then he said "I think you left in a few too many zeroes…"

"Not at all."

Eventually, Jackrum found his voice, though is sounded as if he were speaking from a long way off. "I think we can do business, Mister Burke."

"Glad to hear it."

They stared at each other, cigarette smoke mingling in the heavy air. The door opened and an agitated young Talon Company mercenary poked his head in. "Your visitor has arrived, sir."

"That's my exit." Jackrum said, rising to his feet.

"Stick around, Sergeant." Burke said, tapping the tip of his cigarette. Ash drifted down and landed on the cold surface of the table. "And listen. Do not speak. And above all, make no mention of your most recent mission."

Jackrum nodded and moved to stand beside Jabsco. The three of them lapsed into awkward silence.

Two mercs filed in and flanked the doorway, gripping their shotguns tightly, yet being careful to keep their fingers off the triggers.

"Stay calm." Burke ordered, as worried noises echoed through the hallway. Jackrum stayed very calm, and very calmly flicked the safety off of his assault rifle.

"He's comin' in!" a voice shouted. The door opened again and an immense, towering figure entered, dressed in a large brown robe. It was forced to bend nearly double in order to fit through the small office door, and when it straightened up, its neck was bent at an awkward angle, pressed uncomfortably against the ceiling. The visitor's broad shoulders seemed nearly as wide as Jackrum was tall, and it had a demeanor which radiated intelligence, and quiet, brooding fury.

As it raised its arms, the sleeves fell back to reveal the toughened skin of a supermutant. Except unlike the green and orange colors of the Capital Wasteland mutants, the visitor's skin was a very dark shade of blue. Almost ultramarine with grey highlights. Jackrum noticed that it's knuckles were much lighter in color, covered by callouses. The mutant raised its hands to its hood and pulled the brown cloth back, revealing an old face, covered in ragged scars. It examined the room with jaundiced eyes, taking careful note of the two nervous guards flanking the doorway. It gave Jackrum a thorough examination, it's gaze delving much deeper than his outward appearance. He noted the way it's eyes flickered from his face to his Chinese assault rifle. It met his gaze and it's eyes bored into him until he flicked the safety back on. Then it dismissed him and turned to Burke, silently awaiting acknowledgment.

The man addressed the two guards first. "You may leave us."

They scurried out, looking relieved.

"Jackrum," Burke said, giving the merc a smile, "I'd like you to meet Brutus."

The blue mutant turned to him and extended a hand, it's yellow eyes relatively friendly. Jackrum steeled himself and raised his own palm. The mutant's grip was surprisingly gentle. More controlled than the veteran would have expected.

"A smart mutie…" Jackrum muttered, staring at the visitor.

"Be polite, Sergeant." Burke smiled, "Afterall, _he_ paid the finder's fee for your disposal of the Lone Wanderer."

"Is he dead?" the mutant demanded in a deep baritone voice. A lot of time and effort had been spent transforming the erratic shouts of the regular mutants into a slow, measured tone.

"Shot in the head and locked in a vault." Burke replied smoothly, "No one will question his disappearance until long after you've set your plan in motion."

"And you believe it's just that easy?" the mutant rumbled, it's yellow eyes staring in astonishment at Burke's smug face.

"There is a bullet lodged in his skull." Burke told the mutant. "He is rotting away as we speak."

In a sudden fit of motion which had all three humans standing with their backs against the wall, Brutus slammed its enormous fist down into the table, leaving a dent the size of Jackrum's head. "He is not!" the mutant growled. "I've seen one like him before. A walker destroyed us. My master. His army… years of work and planning all went to waste because of one man. _One man_!"

It turned its furious gaze upon Burke and began to roar, streams of spittle flying from its mouth, coating the table and landing beyond in thick gobs: "I wanted him dismembered! I wanted his corpse split into a dozen pieces, buried across the wasteland!" his fist slammed into the table again, making the legs buckle. "I wanted his head on a platter! If I cannot have his, then I will have yours."

Jackrum was impressed by Burke's lack of reaction. The man hadn't even twitched, remaining calm and collected despite the imposing mutant's rant. He said: "Get control of yourself, Brutus!"

"They can take more punishment than a supermutant!" the monster roared, "They can fight harder than any Brotherhood soldier, and do more damage than an enclave strike team! They are demons! I have seen them topple empires!"

"We have the situation well in hand." Burke assured him, "We discovered his limits, and have taken advantage of them."

"Limits?"

"He is healed by sunlight and radiation." Burke explained. "He has been shot in the head, and as such, cannot move. Even if he could, being locked in a vault, he has access to neither. It can only be opened from the outside."

The mutant let out a long, earth-shaking breath, it's fury assuaged. "Where did you come by this information?"

"A Brotherhood soldier recently accompanied him to The Pitt. She learned much there and put it in a report for her father's benefit. We paid a dissatisfied Knight named Artemis in return for the information."

The mutant nodded. "And the purifier? My scouts report is has been 'sploded up ha ha ha!'…idiots."

Burke gave the mutant an indulgent smile. "Daniel Agincourt was well compensated in return for the information...sadly he perished in the blast. All we needed was a stealthboy and a willing merc."

"I will begin preparations." Brutus promised with a vindictive purr. The mutant grinned down at all three of them, and Jackrum heard the gentle clink of armour as Jabsco tried to use his shoulder-blades to carve his way backwards through the wall.

"Remember our deal." Burke said, "You know my employer. If Fort Bannister is touched…"

"I keep my promises!" Brutus replied angrily, "And I repay my debts."

The mutant put its hood back up, once again hiding it's face in the shadows. It bent double and slipped out through the door. Burke followed it out, then reappeared a moment later, sucking thoughtfully on his cigarette.

Jackrum counted to ten, then asked: "So… we're allied with the muties?"

"Yes."

"If I asked why…?"

"My employers desire the disappearance of the Brotherhood of Steel, and the current power structure they have assembled in the Capital Wasteland." Burke explained, taking a seat in front of the broken table. "We will let the supermutants wipe the slate clean for us, then we will eliminate _them_ by injecting the PVP virus into Project Purity- that'll be your job, by the way- and it will leave the wasteland completely purged, and free for the Talon Company's taking."

"A double-cross." Jabsco explained.

"And…everyone'll be dead?" Jackrum asked, trying to force the idea into what little available space his mind still possessed.

Burke nodded. "Every settlement shall be razed to the ground, aside from Fort Bannister. Is that a problem?"

Jackrum noted the man's hand, which hard drawn towards his lapel, behind which he stored his pistol. Jackrum knew that his next few words would decide the length of his own future. He produced a cigarette and lit it, cupping the small flame with one hand. He flicked out the match and took a puff, letting out a long thin stream of smoke. "Two hundred and fifty-thousand caps?"

"If you're with us."

Jackrum nodded, "Is there anywhere else in the world I can spend the money?"

"I know of a place far to the west. It is not for a man of my beliefs, but a simple degenerate such as yourself would feel quite comfortable there. A city of neon lights and booze-filled bars. Gambling, drugs, Prostitution… you will lose your caps all too quickly."

"Sounds like my kinda town." Jackrum admitted, crossing his arms to stop his hands from shaking.

Burke's face took on a slightly downcast expression, as if he were disappointed in the answer. Yet his hand dropped to his side. "Very well. We will contact you when we have need of your services. Be patient and stay alive."

"Great." Jackrum said, trying to keep his voice from cracking, "Any other details I should know about?"

"You already know more than you need to." Burke puffed thoughtfully, "But if you wish to learn more, then be at the pre-war scrapyard in…call it five days. You'll learn all you need to."

* * *

Jackrum headed for the surface. The moment he opened the door, he took gulp after gulp of the cool evening wasteland air. He stumbled up the stairs and sat back against the nearest pile of sandbags, trying to let himself settle. The entire conversation, and all of its implications were beginning to truly sink in…

_The entire wasteland?_ It was all too big. Too big. –he took a ferocious drag on his cigarette- This was Lone Wanderer territory. Jackrum was just one merc. Good at his job, but not much else…

Just one merc…

In his mind's eye, he saw James, the crying child from Rivet City. If Burke's plan was carried out, the child would never see any of the thirty-thousand caps. Joey the security guard would die a painful death…

_Everyone_ would die a painful death!

Jackrum spat his cigarette onto the dirty sand and rammed his foot down atop it, grinding it down until it wasn't recognizable. What kind of a man was Burke? What kind of a man would condemn the entire wasteland? What gave him the right?

The _arrogance_!

And what made him think he could simply _buy someone off_? Did he really think Jackrum was _that shallow_? He was a mercenary, not a murderer! Not a raider, nor a bandit! Jackrum made his living honestly.

The death of the Lone wanderer had irked Jackrum not because he particularly like the boy, or agreed with his extreme methods and opinions, but because it had violated Jonathon Rumsfeld's personal code. If anyone ever asked him to dissect it, they would have found a mish-mash of hypocritical thoughts on honor, killing, and the life of a mercenary., yet it was his own code. It allowed him to keep some dignity and self-respect, despite his job.

Jackrum hadn't accepted the Commission for killing the Wanderer because he hadn't killed the Lone Wanderer himself. Therefore he hadn't earned it. Furthermore, the boy's death had been treated as a footnote. A minor incident, to be forgotten. No respect was paid towards the boy's accomplishments, nor to the legacy he would leave behind…

The defining moment, Jackrum realized, was when Burke had walked around to the other side of his desk and broken the boy's nose. Kicking a man when he was down. Stabbing allies in the back. Showing a blatant and unapologetic disregard for the lives under his command. Plotting the deaths of people like Joey and Gary Staley and, when it came right down to it, Jackrum himself. Honest men who worked hard for what little they had… working with Supermutants…

Burke's crimes against Jackrum and his personal code began to pile up in the old veteran's mind, breaking down the walls of shock and anger, silencing the small part of his mind what was still saying 'Two hundred and fifty-thousand caps'. It was all replaced by a solid brick of determination which settled in the old merc's gut. It directed his thoughts down one path:

The Lone Wanderer could put things right.

* * *

The distant ringing of the buoys dragged Sarah from unconsciousness She lifted her head up and felt the world spin. She gently lowered it back down onto the chipped shale and rough dirt which comprised the surface where she lay. One side of her head as nothing but pain, and the other cheek was lying in a sticky pool of blood. She couldn't' remember ever feeling _this _beaten. Her memories began to flow back, and her eyes flew wide open as she realized the nightmares hadn't ended yet.

It seemed to take a great effort for her to even roll over onto her back, but Sarah managed it. She settled on her back and stared up at the swamp denizen, who was grinning down at her from the wooden planks ten feet above, a lecherous expression on his face. He turned and disappeared. She heard him shout: "Billy, get the rope!"

Once again, Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She felt around for her laser pistol, but it was gone. It probably had fallen into the ocean. Only pure luck had prevented her from joining it. Her hand moved to the small of her back and grabbed at her combat knife. She groaned; It was lying at the bottom of the fjords. Willing herself to move, she crawled across the barren to the edge of the small plateau and stared into the churning waves below. A second platform was lying under hers. She could make out the light of a lantern.

_Civilization_!_ Safety_!

She twisted around and lowered herself over the side of her narrow ledge, feeling for footholds. Her right foot found one, and she tested her weight gingerly, only to remember far too late, about the wound in her knee. It gave out and she spilled over the edge and slid roughly down to the second level, the landing left her winded. Her body screamed in painful protest, but she ignored it. Blood was seeping from her scraped elbows and knees

Nevertheless, she examined the area. Her laser pistol was lying in a crevice, smashed beyond use. Of far more importance was the wooden door leading into the cliff. She struggled to her feet and limped to the door, using both hands to wrench it open, she entered a long cave, propped up by ancient bulks of lumber. She staggered down the tunnel, hearing the satisfying cries of dismay from the swampfolk above. As she moved deeper, the roar of the ocean faded and was replaced by the oppressive silence and strange white noise she sometimes encountered in the darker subway tunnels. Claustrophobia set in, and Sarah felt the fear in her gut grow.

"Don't move!" A voice ordered. A figure dressed in rags stepped from the murky shadows, and for a moment, Sarah thought it was Jason. He had the same eyes, and the same air of grim survivalist determination the Wanderer had cultivated in the northern mountains.

Yet this figure was far too young. He was barely into his teens. twelve at most. Though he had the worn face familiar to those who had lived hard lives. IT made his exact age hard to date. Closer inspection also revealed that his rifle was a BB gun.

"Wow." The kid exclaimed, giving her an equally detailed examination. "You're bleeding _real _bad. Did you know that?"

Sarah opened and shut her mouth a few times, but only two words came to mind: "Help me."

* * *

A hot can of beans was placed in front of her, as well as a rag and a bucket of cold water. The boy had helped her limp far into the labyrinthine mine, where a shelter had been constructed out of loose lumber and flat pieces of wood. The hovel had two beds, a refrigerator, several shelves, and other odds and ends which made up the young man's world.

He handed her a fork and she realized just how hungry she had been. She rammed it into the warm food and began piling it into her mouth as fast as she could. He sat on the bed opposite her. She noticed the way his eyes traveled over her and privately upgraded his age to fourteen or fifteen.

She finished the food, and instantly felt better for it. Then she went to work with the water and cloth, cleaning herself up. The wound on her head was a jagged tear in the skin located just above her right ear. It was a grazing shot, and an extremely light one at that, but it was still more than enough to knock her out.

Both elbows and one of her knees had been skinned. The knee which had been pierced by the Punga root had swollen stiff, but was completely painless. The plant itself probably dulled the pain so that the victim wouldn't feel it digging in.

She glanced back up at the boy. He was watching her with an almost hungry look which made her quite nervous. Something in the loneliness of his stare suggested that not only had he never encountered a woman before, but that human contact in general was an alien event.

"I'm Kenny." The boy told her.

"Sarah." She replied.

The boy pulled out a small tin lunchbox from under his bed and handed it to her. Within were a large number of stimpacks and bandages as well as Med-X and a few other drugs. She immediately injected herself with several stimpacks, the sheer amount of medicine making her feel woozy. She wrapped the bandage carefully around her head, wincing with the pain. Then she went to work inspecting her knee. It had been scraped, but that wasn't the worrying part. It had swollen, and the hole in the back, where the root had burrowed in had turned an ugly shade of green. She injected it with a stimpack and watched the color normalize, but the selling and the bleeding were still present.

"Do you have any alcohol?" She asked.

The boy disappeared. She dipped the cloth into the ice-cold bucket of water and held it over her knee, soothing the swollen areas.

Kenny returned with a large jug of moonshine, which he set down next to Sarah. She rolled up a relatively clean cloth into a tight, thin rod, then dipped it in the moonshine and plugged it into the hole. Sharp, stinging pain blossomed in her knee, making her scream. Her vision swam, darkness lapping at the edges. She let it settle slightly, then picked up the Med-X slipped it into her wrist and injected it, feeling the calm soaking into her, turning the world into a painless haze, and drawing her inwards until she slipped away.

* * *

Sarah resurfaced several hours later. She had slumped over on her side, her arm twisted uncomfortably. The Med-X had acted so quickly that she hadn't even had time to move the syringe. It had been crushed under her weight, bits of broken glass had cut the mattress open.

The boy was sitting cross-legged in the bed opposite her own, a blank sheet of paper was open on his lap, and he was scribbling in it furiously. He looked up, hearing her movements. "Are you okay?"

"I'm alive…"

He gave her a slow examination, "You're a long way from home, Sarah. What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here."

"I'm looking for something." Sarah told him, feeling the tender wound on her head. "it's called the G.E.C.K. ."

The boy laughed. "that's a funny name."

"It is…isn't it?" She replied, smiling slightly.

"What do you need it for?"

"To fix my home. Do you know if my friends are alive?"

The boy thought carefully. "Depends. Were they outside during the nighttime?"

Sarah nodded.

"Then they're dead."

Perhaps it was the drugs, or more likely her situation, but Sarah's mind was too tired and worn out to feel anything at all beyond basic logical acceptance of the facts.

"Do you even know where the G.E.C.K. is?" Kenny asked.

"It's with the swampfolk." Sarah shrugged. "Aside from that…"

"If it's important, then it's probably in their cave." The boy said, drawing more lines on the paper. He handed it to her, and she recognized in the scribbled lines and X's, the coastline of Point Lookout. She recognized the tiny spit of land upon which the lighthouse performed its lonely vigil. The docks and what Sarah couldn't help but think of as the 'Human Section' of Point Lookout had been distinguished with a large scribbled block of black crayon wax.

She recognized the shallow Fjords, and the distant bridge. Her eye traced the fine lines of the river until they came to another mark, which lay far inland.

Kenny tapped the spot with the tip of his crayon. "That's my dad's house. The G.E.C.K. would be underneath."

"I gotta go get it." She murmured.

"No!" the boy protested, his face panicky, "you have to stay here! Stay here! I have so much to show you! Stay here!"

He vanished into the darkness. Sarah waited patiently; her wounds still ached, and she felt in no position to argue. Off in the shadows of the cave, serenaded by the steady dripping of what she hoped to god was water, the child began to sing. With a growing sense of dread, she recognized the tune, it's malignant phrases and inane lyrics giving her a feeling of great unease. She slipped quietly off the narrow bed and retrieved the map which the boy had drawn for her, then limped over to the ladder and began to climb as fast as she could.

"Come down, Sarah Lyons!"

She froze, halfway up the ladder, breathing hard through her nose, and staring intently at the rock face beyond the window of the rickety rungs. She mustered her courage and looked down. The boy was standing helplessly at the entrance to his hovel. In one hand was a rusty kitchen knife. In his other was the mask. The horrific clown –faced mask with its bulbous head, polka-dot collar, and murderously jolly eyes.

"Come down here. Play with me!"

The voice compelled her to begin a slow descent, yet she resisted. With every new step, it seemed a great weight was laid upon her shoulders. An itch at the back of her mind grew with every inch of added distance between her and the child, yet she didn't dare stop, even when it became a sharp, piercing pain, nearly strong enough to throw her from the ladder. She kept climbing, the pain growing sharp and sharper until at last, she reached the distant surface and crawled out of the crevice between two large boulders.

She scrambled from the dark hole and collapsed upon the open moor, letting her headache dwindle to a dull background annoyance. To her left was the lighthouse, just visible in the shrouds of the morning mist. And it was proper mist, unlike the thick, choking vapors which had assaulted her team the previous evening.

She turned back and saw the crumbled ruins of the Ark and Dove cathedral. The abomination had grown over the course of the night. Roots now encircled the entire building and the immediate landscape. Larger tentacle-like appendages were waving in the air, high above the church, swaying and drifting with the salty morning wind. The sight gave the plant an eerily organic quality, as of some tentacled deep sea denizen.

Sarah stumbled across the open moor, towards the distant lighthouse, her breath condensed in the cold air. To her right, the bog, submersed in vapour, was silent. A peaceful, yet worrying tranquility had settled over the landscape, like the calm at the center of some unimaginably vast storm.

The sand beach of the fjords was cold against the worn-out soles of her recon suit. It shifted and slithered under her feet as she trudged down to the edge of the water. It was crystal clear, and ice cold, freezing her toes as she stepped into it. Sarah gritted her teeth and waded in, feeling it seep into her uniform. She smiled slightly as it soothed and cleansed the open wound in her leg, calming the angry swelling, and giving her a small measure of relief. The air was salty and clear, and the sun low enough on the horizon that she could feel it's glorious and familiar heat on her face. In the distance, the buoy bells tolled, signaling the ocean waves. She continued across the small tangle of islands, at last coming to the other side. She half walked, half crawled up the bank and continued along the pristine shoreline, drinking in the relative calm and the crisp air.

A loud yet muffled crack echoed across the forlorn landscape, making Sarah look up. She watched in horror as the lighthouse slowly crumbled sideways into the ocean, the cold waves eagerly engulfing each stone with countless distant splashes. She began to speed up, first from a walk to a trot, then from a trot to a run, then she was sprinting back up the coastline towards the rocky spit of land.

She splashed through the shallow water and charged up the steep slope to the lighthouse entrance. The fault line around which the structure had collapsed lay a third the way up the lighthouse, leaving the twisted wreckage of the ornate staircase, and the surrounding walls about ten feet high. As she stepped inside, a few pieces of stone crashed onto the floor, breaking and scattering to all the corners of the room.

Panting with ragged breath, Sarah advanced down the staircase. When she reached the bottom, she picked up a single familiar object: a brotherhood combat knife, brown blood spattered across its length. She clutched it in her fist and proceeded into the facility, trying to keep despair from crushing her. Yet she didn't dare shout, for fear of alerting any listening denizens. There was no sign her companions had ever been there at all.

Her headache came back, slowly at first. It began as a dull thud, then a nagging pain, and evolved yet again into crippling, paralyzing agony. The hall began to lengthen and warp, it's dimensions twisting her mind, and violating the very physical laws which held the fabric of reality together. She struggled onwards, tripping and falling with the swaying, bubbling surface of the tile floor.

At last she reached the central chamber of the facility, her vision swaying and warping imperiously.

Where Calvert's brain had been, there only sat the derelict base of the tank, the floor below surrounded in scattered shards of glass. A figure stood upon on tank's pedestal, awash in a glow of subtle and disquieting green light. It was a child's size, yet far larger somehow. It seemed to fill the world. In its right hand was a rusty old kitchen knife, and upon its head sat the grotesque bulbous clown mask, grinning at her doom.

Sarah backed away, shaking her head. "Where's Rothchild?" she demanded, "what did you do with him?"

The figure tilted it's head, considering her.

"What are you!" Sarah screamed at it.

_I want to play a game._

It didn't speak. The ideas and desires ran far deeper, and far more potent than any words could put across. Once again, Sarah felt blood seep onto her upper lip. Her vision swam, and she adjusted her stance, trying to stay upright.

_Let's play a game!_ It offered, _Tag. I'm It!_

Sarah backed away further, keeping her eyes on the small figure, though the sight stung her retinas as if she were watching the sun. She turned, suddenly, and ran as fast as her dwindling strength and wounded leg could carry her. Fear and adrenaline pumped madly through her veins, pushing her to ignore the pain and the tightness in her lungs, and keep moving. Behind her she heard the pitter patter of the child-thing's feet, racing to catch her. It's amused giggling followed her as she caromed around the corners and down the decrepit halls. As she reached the staircase leading up to the floor of the lighthouse, she felt the rusted knife slit the back of her recon armour and bite into her skin, it's entry causing waves of agony to rip through her body. She kicked out behind her and felt her leg connect with nothing but the foggy air. The tip of the knife dug a little deeper, beginning to slice into her musculature. She raced up the stairs and threw herself out the door of the lighthouse, her shoulder landing painfully against a rock. She lay there for a moment, watching the shadowed doorway, expecting the Slasher to step out, yet nothing happened. Reality had warped back, though with some ginger explorations, she felt blood seeping out of a new wound in her lower back.

After the pain had dulled sufficiently, she rose and approached it, gripping her combat knife as she went, determined to defend herself if anything came through. She crept up to the door and slammed it shut, hating the loud noise it made with every fiber of her being. She rested against it, trying to plan her next move.

_Semper Fidelis_

Gallows' words entered her mind and stuck there, over-ruling all else; _Get the G.E.C.K. , go home…_

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the wind and the sound of the frothing waves gently caress her ears. She glanced in the sun's direction. It was still rising, and not showing any signs of speeding up.

So the land still wanted to give her a chance. She looked towards the docks. If she were going to take on the swampfolk, she needed more than a combat knife.

* * *

**Alright. So that's that one out of the way. I was working hard to get it out within a reasonable length of time. Now i get to take a braeth and decompress a little.**

**What did you think of Brutus? **


	17. Chapter 17

Aqua Vitae 17

What little morale Sarah had left was obliterated when she came upon Madame Panada's shop. It had been completely demolished, the odds and ends that the woman had been selling were strewn across the open courtyard alongside splintered pieces of wood and other detritus. Sarah resisted the urge to retch. Panada herself was strung up, crucified against a nearby column, a dark, grimy hole where her abdomen should have been. Her lower jaw was lying some distance away. Little toy dolls and their heads had been strung up all around the woman in some bizarre, primitive altar. Her blood had been collected in a large overflowing pail at her feet. All around it were smaller pails and jars, each one holding a different organ. Unevenly painted in blood on the back wall of her shop were the words: _No Help_

Panic overtaking her, Sarah searched desperately through the wreckage, looking for a gun or weapon of some kind. A memory bobbed guiltily at the back of her mind. The woman throwing open a box of ammunition and warning the expedition that they would need it. For a brief moment she felt hope flare in her, and as she pulled herself over the counter, she saw that the box had been left intact. Limping painfully, she rushed over to it, unlatched it, and threw the lid open. The ammunition had been removed, and in its place was the grinning clown mask, laughing at her efforts.

Sarah backed away slowly, pulling herself back over the counter.

It wouldn't even give her a _weapon_!

She landed painfully on the plaza boardwalk, shaking.

_Something knew she would check the box… left it intact…_

Despair overtook her, and Sarah collapsed to her knees. Her wounds ached, her head ached, her body and mind were spent, her energies drained. She felt diminished; a husk. A shell of her former self. The confidence, determination and self-assurance she had held at the beginning of the trip ebbed away, leaving a barren, lonesome feeling of hopelessness and frustration.

Her vision began to blur, the world warping and growing out of focus. For a moment, she thought – she hoped she was having another hallucination. Perhaps the Pint-Sized Slasher had arrived to end it, but she realized that it was her own tears. She rolled on her back, letting them fall freely. They blurred the sky, blinding her with the gray mist. She wanted to go home, she realized.

"Just stop it!" the words came out with a moan, but grew stronger as bitter resentment filled her.

"Please!" she said. She wasn't addressing anyone, or anything in particular, just pleading with the sky in a vain hope that someone or something up there might hear her. Her quiet voice grew to a loud wail. "Just stop it! Stop torturing me! What do you want with me? I'm not important!" Her body stiffened with the effort of shouting. Tears poured freely down her face. "I'm not Jason Howlett! I can't do this anymore!"

Nothing answered but the desolate wind.

Memories of her father flooded through her, filling her with fear and grief. Memories of them playing together. The proud look on his face after she'd learned to use power armour. A brief view from the top of the Haven in The Pitt as he quizzed her on Brotherhood lore. Her tears grew thicker and more painful as the memories flowed. Regret filled her as she remembered their most recent argument.

"I'm sorry father." She said, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

She collapsed, panting quickly, trying to get her breath back. The shouting had expended the last of her energy, and she threw herself into the welcoming darkness of sleep, not caring what found her.

* * *

Something wet brushed against her ear and disappeared. She felt a rasping tongue licking at the wound on her leg. A foul, musty smell assaulted her nostrils, and she heard a low growling. Padded feet pawed at the ground, and a tail swished in the stale air.

Sarah opened her eyes and froze, staring in to the yellow eyes of a coyote. The thing moved backwards in surprise, but recovered and began a low growl which told her that her time was up. A second animal was busy licking at the blood around her knee. It looked up, sensing its companion's sudden shift. In the corner of her eye, she made out a third, wandering near the corpse of Madame Panada. The one nearest to her face leapt, it's ragged mouth wide open, strong jaws ready to snap shut on her neck.

The familiar rush of adrenaline took hold, and she kicked out at the one licking her leg, pulling her combat knife from its sheath. At the same moment, she rolled towards the leaping coyote, hearing it's jaws snap shut upon thin air as it overshot. She felt it's paw scrape her forehead, missing her eyes by inches as she put her arm around its neck and drove her combat knife into it's throat. Warm blood flowed over her wrist and face, drenching the collar of her already blood-soaked recon armour.

Sarah kicked out again, feeling her foot connect with the jaw of another coyote. The thing yelped and backed off, allowing her to rise to her feet. As soon as she had a steady footing, she bolted down the rows of shops, running as fast as her limp would allow, hearing the animals' padded feet slapping the wooden boardwalk behind her.

She took a right turn and kept moving. One of the animals put on a burst of speed and snapped at her, but she swung wildly with the hilt of her combat knife and hit it on the side of the head. It backed off with a whimper.

At the end of the street was a crossroads. The hotel was opposite her, and she could see more of the animals padding around the courtyard. To her right was an old building with boarded-up windows and

She threw herself through the door and slammed it shut in the face of one of the coyotes. They began scratching and pushing against the other side, but she locked it and leaned against it, holding the ancient wood shut. After a short while, the pressure ceased, and though she could still hear them outside, the brief siege was over.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she could make out the shapes of chairs and desks. A wall of safes was kept behind a large metal grill at the far end of the room. She wasn't alone; whimpering could be heard from behind one of the desks. Sarah pulled herself to her feet, readied her combat knife, and peered over the side. Knight Pek was sitting against the cubicle wall, sobbing frantically. He had a laser pistol clutched in his hands, and every so often would check that it was loaded.

"…Pek?" she asked, "What are you doing here?"

He stared up at her with big baby blue eyes and said: "Shh! I'm not here!"

"What happened? Where is everyone?"

He giggled, shoving the pistol under his own chin. Before Sarah could stop him, he pulled the trigger. The telltale hiss of an expended battery signaled that the weapon was out of ammunition. The man began to sob again, and clutched the pistol even tighter.

"Pek, pull yourself together! We had a mission, remember? My father gave us orders…" the words died in her throat. Who was she trying to fool? It wasn't about the G.E.C.K. anymore. It was about survival. The mission had failed. That was all there was to it. She'd get back to the wasteland, give the map to Jason, and let him sort it all out.

A surge of anger rushed through her exhausted body as she thought of the Lone Wanderer. Why hadn't he told her? Why hadn't he tried to warn her? Why hadn't he gone himself? Why hadn't he caught the saboteurs before they managed to strike?

_Why me_? It seemed to be the only question left. _Why me? Why here? Why now? _The same thoughts had occurred to her when she was trapped in The Pitt. In the days following, she had made the erroneous assumption that she had survived the worst. Yet even then, Jason had been there, watching her back. She hadn't known it at the time, but he had been planning and protecting her as best he could. Jason Howlett was not here to help her out of Point lookout.

She watched Pek for a long time, unable to offer any kind of comfort. Drowning men make for poor lifeguards. The man had stopped rocking back and forth, and was staring at her, his madness suddenly focused.

"Come on, Pek." She said, "We're going home."

He got to his feet and gave her a clownish grin.

"Pek!" She warned. She backed far away, holding her knife at the ready.

"You think it'll let us _leave_? It came for them!" he screeched, "It came for me! It was in the fog! You can't kill it!" he shook his head, a mad gleam in his eyes, "You can't hurt it. It's made of dreams! Nightmares!"

Sarah watched the tip of the pistol as it weaved back and forth. Pek continued, almost unaware of her presence. His eyes wandered and strayed frequently towards the darkest shadows of the room. "It hunted us! Like rats!...Hide And Go Seek…" he murmured, giggling, "I'll count to ten!"

"Pek…" she said gently, "I know what you're going through-"

"I can't even die! It won't let me die!" He held the pistol to his own skull and pulled the trigger. Once again Sarah heard the faint hiss. Then he pointed it at the nearest wall and pulled the trigger. A red beam of light lanced out and left a burnt circle on it.

"See?" he demanded, as she stared at the weapon in astonishment.

"It's alive!" he declared. "Not like... people. It's bigger. It's everything. Everything here is a part of it. It's not in the air, it _is_ the air!"

"Pek-" she tried again, but he was in a different place.

"It is the trees, the rocks the water, and the wind. It's like…" his hands darted back and forth erratically. Sarah kept her eyes trained on his weapon as he tried to sort through the jumbled broken mess of his own mind. "You can't see the forest cause' all the trees are in the way, right? It's too big. We're all in it and we all are it. It even controls the chances!" he held the pistol to his head and squealed, pulling the trigger a few more times for good measure. "How many misfires is that? How do you fight something that controls fate? You don't. It trades people, you see? Like baseball cards!" His aim was suddenly as steady as Sarah had ever seen, and the pistol was pointed directly at her. "I'll give you to it and it'll let me go!"

"Pek, we can leave _now_!" Sarah tried to reason with him. "We can go _now_! We can be safe."

"Leave?" the man laughed, "You don't leave. We are _allowed _to go! I don't have permission yet! But I will!" He gestured with the laser pistol. "Give me your knife!"

"Pek-"

The young man raised his pistol and pulled the trigger. Sarah cried out in pain as the red beam cut through the sleeve of her recon armour and hit her in the left arm. The pain blinded and paralyzed her, and the knife slipped form her grasp. The knight darted forward and snatched it up, giggling like a child. He spotted the map she had tucked into her belt and retrieved it as well.

Sarah Stared in horror at the ragged hole in her uniform. Her entire left side was nothing but pain. She gritted her teeth and ripped the hole wider, trying to view the damage underneath. With a shock she realized that she had never actually been wounded by a laser weapon before. The thin beam had left a pale, dead circle no larger than a bottlecap. The skin was painless and translucent. She could make out the muscles underneath. Surrounding the wound was a much larger circle of angry red blistering skin, stretched, wrinkled and shrunken by the heat of the laser.

She looked back at the knight, who was engrossed in the map. He grinned at her and tapped it with his pistol.

He said, "That's where the swamp people live? We're going to see them! They'll talk to it! They'll set the record straight! Get up! Move!"

* * *

**Alright I know this was a really short chapter, and somewhat disappointing in terms of content, but Krow Blood and I are prepping something big for the next one, so stay tuned.**


	18. Chapter 18

Aqua Vitae 18

Six Talon Company mercenaries stood at the entrance to vault 106. Four uneventful days had put them at ease. They had plenty of supplies piled in the vault tunnel, a minefield set around the entrance, plenty of ammunition, and orders not to let anyone through without the permission of Burke himself.

The mercenaries were of Jabsco's inner circle; a particularly nasty stock; loyal and obedient only to him. The sort who found that the killing not only paid the bills, but was fun as well. They were bored. They had amused themselves with a deck of cards, and a few other baubles they had seen fit to bring with them, but spending two days sitting in their tiny fortified little camp was not an ideal situation.

That being the case, they were almost relieved when a figure materialized from the hot desert mirage. He moved at his own pace, and they didn't take much interest at first, only the occasional glance. But when it became obvious that he had no intention of changing course, and was heading straight for them, they set about preparing their defense, and grabbing their weapons.

The man halted about ten feet from them. His face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed fedora, his body beneath a long brown overcoat. The sun had reached its zenith, throwing his face into shadow, yet the mercenaries could make out a large, grizzled chin, covered in rough grey hair, and the flash of ancient eyes, watching them from under the fedora's brim. Yet they were all far more worried by the easy competence of his grip on his .44 magnum.

"Ya take one more step, and we'll blow yer head orf!" One of the mercs threatened, raising his Chinese assault rifle.

"Gentlemen…" the man smiled, throwing his face further into shadow. "I'm not the one you need to worry about." He nodded to the ridge above the vault entrance. A heavily armoured figure was standing there, hefting a weapon none of the mercs had ever seen before. They realized that their mysterious stranger's approach had been nothing more than a distraction, allowing their true adversary to position himself.

The figure's armour was intimidating. The first thought which occurred to most of the mercenaries was: enclave. The stranger's menacing power armour suggested it. His insectoid helmet with two glowing yellow eyes, dark coloration, and high shoulder guards held a distinct resemblance. The smooth plates of his power armour were much larger than those of the Brotherhood's T-45d. The figure's enormous stature completed the menacing, god-like image.

His weapon was large and painted white. It was the length of a sniper rifle, with a similar barrel, yet it's magazine was far too large, and the general design too bulky. It was designed for rapid fire, and could probably tear a hole in anything the Mercs felt like putting up against it.

Regardless, they raised their rifles and unloaded six magazines worth of ammunition into the figure, who stood and took it all. The air was filled with the ringing sound of bullets ricocheting off of his armour. Scratches and dents materialized on his armour plating. The sand at the mercs' feet was awash in smoking shells.

With a final _ping_, a thin shining scratch appeared on the side of his helmet, and silence fell over the vault entrance. Wisps of smoke rose gently from the tip of each gun barrel, and were snatched by the breeze. The figure twisted its head to the side, and in the silence, the mercs heard the small noise of his neck cracking. Aside from that, he made no other moves. The glowing yellow eye plates kept them frozen in place.

The Mysterious Stranger spoke: "I'm afraid my friend has a very short temper, and a certain lust for violence. We're on a tight schedule. We have some testing to do on your 'prisoner' before his allies arrive. So if you'd care to stand against the wall, this will all be over with very quickly. I can promise you that much."

* * *

Elder Lyons' gaze traveled along the circular tables of the great hall. Gathered with him was every member of the Lyons' Pride left in the wasteland, along with a myriad of scribes and other scientests. More keenly than ever, he felt the thunderous silence of Rothchild's absence. The chair Owyn's closest friend normally occupied lay empty, and Elder Lyons felt as if one of his own limbs had been removed. He was well aware that the scribes in front of him were far more intelligent than he was. Regniald had had a knack for helping him to understand the technical side of the Brotherhood's needs, and without him, life had become a massive headache. He found his gaze settling on the only person in the world who looked more exhausted than he himself felt. He said, "Report, Mister Dargon?"

The scientist rubbed his eyes and sighed. His hair as unkempt, his normally pristine lab coat was dirty with oil and grime. Dark circles gave his eyes a hollow, shadowed look, and his posture indicated he had next to know energy left. He said, "Peabody and I just spent thirty-six hours re-coding the computer programs practically from scratch. We're about half way through, but we need the G.E.C.K. before we can make any more progress on that front."

"You cannot simply finish everything else and install the G.E.C.K. afterwards?" Lyons asked curiously.

"Do you think it works like a fucking jigsaw puzzle?" the man demanded, his voice fraying along with his nerves. "I can't just plug it in and call it a day!" A few other attendees shifted uncomfortably. Dargon ignored them. "It needs to be disassembled and integrated. Parts need to be fabricated and re-wired. I'm not even going to start on the software hurdles. Right now I'm just thankful we have working computers."

"Language." Paladin Glade gently reminded him.

"It's all right." Lyons said, "we're all tired." He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of every hard-working member of the team. The feeling of exhaustion was palpable, and along with it came a certain undertone of anger and resentfulness. A speech was needed. "Everyone one of you has worked exceptionally hard on fixing the problem, and I am proud to call you members of the Brotherhood of Steel. When the Purifier is fixed, we'll all take a few well-earned days of rest. I've asked much of you over these past weeks, and I'm afraid I need you to hold out only a little longer. With any luck, Sarah and Rothchild will be back with the G.E.C.K. in just a few days, and this nightmare will be over."

It wasn't enough, he knew, but it was a start. He turned to scribe Bigsley. "In terms of the physical…components. Pipes and wires and so forth… do you have everything you need?"

The man squinted at him with watery eyes, giving himself a moment to supply a response which did not include any profanities. "We've done what we could, but some of the new pipes simply aren't compatible. We can't screw things together like they were before and we've had to resort to welding."

"So what?" Knight-Captain Dusk demanded, very obviously feeling insulted. Lyons knew why. Her team had been tasked with retrieving the pipes and wires. They had not had an easy time of it, as most of their objectives lay in the core of the D.C. ruins. Lives and equipment had been lost to Supermutant interference.

"So joints get brittle after you weld them!" Bigsley snapped. "They might crack under the pressure. Besides that, you brought back three-quarter inch pipe when we asked for five-eighths! _Do you know how to use a ruler_?"

"It's hard to read it when you're being shot at!" Dusk shot back angrily. "If you want your pipes, you can go back and tell the Supermutants to hand them over!"

"Here's another question," Bigsley spat, "Do you understand the difference between Aluminum, copper, brass and steel?"

"Metal is metal!" Dusk proclaimed.

"You can't just mash together incompatible materials!" Bigsley explained, as if talking to an infant. "Especially not near water! Do you understand what galvanic corrosion is?"

"I don't give a shit!"

"We asked for a piece of copper pipe seven feet long, wall thickness of at least thirteen thousandths of an inch. You handed us a twenty-four foot long garden hose!"

"Enough!" Lyons declared, slapping his palm against his table. He sat back and rubbed his forehead. "Bigsley, make another list of everything you need. Present the list to Paladin Glade. He and Dusk will lead another expedition into D.C. to collect what's needed."

"Again?" Dusk sighed.

Glade laid a warning hand on her shoulder. "We'll take care of it, Sir."

"Thank you, Paladin." Lyons said wearily, "Does anyone have anything else to report?"

"Actually, we've made huge progress in covering up the hole and repairing the catwalk." One scientist told the group at large, "So far we've been taking sheet metal from the bow of the Rivet City Carrier. That part has actually been going pretty well."

Lyons smiled. "Excellent." He noticed the effect the news seemed to have on the group. Their morale was improved more by the tangible, if insignificant progress than it had been by his feeble attempt at a speech.

"That might be a good place to hunt for pipes too, actually." Glade pondered, more to himself than anyone else. The group groaned, and one or two people actually smacked their foreheads.

'Kinda wished you'd mentioned that _before _I took a team into D.C." Dusk muttered loudly.

"I didn't think of it!" Glade defended, "That's the problem with this, our team is so large that there's no communication between the different groups."

"Which is exactly why I decided to hold these meetings." Lyons told them. "Progress is being made, Ladies and Gentlemen. Unless anyone has anything else to report, you are all dismissed. Take four hours and relax. Get yourselves some well-deserved food from the mess, and take a nap, perhaps."

The group filed out one by one until Lyons was left alone with Alex Dargon, who hadn't moved at all. He sat quietly, staring blankly into space until the door shut.

Lyons rose slowly, feeling his joints protest.

"Sir…" Dargon said. Lyons waited patiently for him to speak. When he did, his voice was much softer, and had an edge to it which Owyn did not immediately recognize.

"Yes? Is there anything else?"

"Yeah." Alex shifted uncomfortably. "But it's…minor. Got nothing to do with the repairs. See, we had to drain the collection tank as part of the repairs, and we found…"

Lyons suddenly recognized the edge in the man's voice. It was one of grief and melancholia. Dargon sighed, "It might be better if… look, come with me." He rose and lead Lyons out of the Great Hall.

* * *

The door to the Citadel's medbay was surrounded by a group of Brotherhood knights, all watching the events unfolding inside. Lyons could make out the disturbing sound of a circular saw revving up. A human voice shouted over it in the unpleasant Boston accent normally associated with Raiders, "I sweah ta gawd Sawbones, you'ah just doin' stitches. If you even think da word amputation, I'll delete all your fuckin' poetry! All of it!"

The Saw promptly stopped.

"Back to your stations!" Lyons ordered, dispersing the group of onlookers. "Back to your stations!" He stood outside the door and peered inside, watching the Citadel's brand new medic ply his craft. The former raider bustled from patient to moaning patient, checking vitals and administering small amounts of Med-X. He turned as Lyons and Dargon entered the room.

"Nu-uh. Get out!" he shouted at them, "Dis is an infirmary, not some fuckin' visitors center. I got just about enough of those fuckin' spectators."

"I am Owyn Lyons!" Lyons proclaimed indignantly, staring at the scrawny man. His name was Phantom. Sarah had brought him back from The Pitt and set him up as the Citadel's new doctor. His results spoke for themselves. Even in the short period of time between his arrival and the explosion of the Purifier, he had already saved three wounded soldiers which Sawbones, the previous medic, had been prepared to write off. After the Purifier explosion, he had been able to save nearly half the critically wounded. Given the state of the wasteland's medical care, this gained him an enormous amount of Owyn's respect. His terrible manners and borderline insubordination were a small price to pay.

"Ah, da boss man." Phantom shrugged. He pointed angrily at a bed in the corner. A long black bag lay atop it. It had been very clearly kept separate from the other patients. "You can wait at da doah. And maybe explain why dis infirmary is doublin' as a morgue."

"We want to look at the body." Alex Dargon told him, squeezing past Lyons.

"Fuck dat noise." The Raider blocked his path and pointed at the wounded soldiers. "Nine times outta ten, da guys don't die from their wounds. Dey die from infection!" He appealed directly to Elder Lyons. "Dat bag's airtight, but you open it in here, youah killin your own men. You wanna stare at corpses, fine. But take it the fuck outta here, and don't come back till you've had a shower and a change of clothes."

* * *

Under the medic's strict supervision, Alex was allowed to wheel the gurney out of the medbay and into the wide hallways of the citadel. As they searched for unused space, Owyn's nose caught the faintest hints of rotten flesh emanating from the black bodybag. He winced. It had been a very long time since he himself had been that close to the dead. His sense of apprehension grew as he wondered who the occupant was, but he didn't ask. It was clear that Alex Dargon was dealing with this issue on his own terms.

They eventually decided on opening it in a secluded area of the inner courtyard, feeling that the interior of the citadel was far too cramped. Smells had a tendency to linger…

The sounds of Paladin Gunny's unique brand of encouragement echoed across the courtyard as the recruits lined up for their afternoon drills. They paid the two men little mind. As Alex wheeled the gurney into a corner. He unzipped the bag in the manner of a man determined to get the worst over with quickly. The air surrounding them was immediately drenched in the nauseating stench of decomposing flesh. Lyons covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve, and leaned in slightly.

Dargon threw open the flaps, exposing the corpse's upper body to the dry afternoon air. The body's pasty skin was bloated and waterlogged, discolored green and blue, slick with moisture. The hair was frizzled and wiry, a tangled mess bunched at odd angles. It's beard was unkempt, having grown after death. Lyons stared. His eyes took in the faded blue and yellow vault suit, with the tag on the left collar emblazoned with the numbers: 101. The sickly, bloated skin was bunched up around the neck, shoulders, and wrists creating almost comical bulges, and rendering the deceased man nearly unrecognizable, yet his identity was confirmed by the pip-boy strapped to his left arm.

Not even death had managed to erase the friendly wrinkles around the eyes of James Howlett, father of both the Lone Wanderer, and Project Purity, though said eyes now stared blankly into space, the pupil and irises hidden beneath milky-white clouds. Owyn felt a surge of quiet, helpless anger at the Enclave. He resisted the urge to take a deep breath; the smell was abhorrent.

"We found him in one of the raw collection tanks." Alex explained quietly, "I don't know whether the Enclave had any plans to fish him out or not…"

Lyons stayed silent, trying to channel his mixed emotions towards something useful.

"We don't have to be worried about the Aqua Pura being soured." Dargon said mechanically, taking refuge in the subject familiar to him. "Any bacteria from his corpse would be removed in the stage two purifier along with everything else, but…" he let out a long sigh. "We should bury him properly."

Lyons nodded. Despite his rocky relationship with Jason, Owyn held nothing but respect for James Howlett and his contributions. James Howlett… the man had been a true paragon. A good man who had a knack for bringing out the very best in those around him. He deserved better treatment than he had received, both in life, and death. "We'll bury him at Project Purity. Somewhere in view of the out-flow pipes."

"What about the Lone Wanderer?" Alex asked, "Shouldn't he have a say?"

Despite himself, Lyons felt a surge of sympathy towards the young Wanderer, wherever he was. "I doubt he'd disapprove of the location" He said fairly, "And we'll let him choose the inscription on the headstone. Have him sent to me if he appears at Project Purity, would you? I'd like to break the news to him in person."

* * *

Sarah Lyons limped down the beach, followed closely by her captor, who kept his gun trained on her back. Cold waves washed up on the beach to her right, the backwash carving rivulets in the rough sand. It washed over her feet occasionally, the cold water seeping through the frayed seams of her recon armour. She didn't speak, or fight. She wasn't entirely sure she had enough energy left for that. Behind her, Pek was constantly muttering to himself, the words "clown child" appearing in almost every sentence.

They reached the fjords, and on the cliff across, she could see the silhouette of the Punga plant. It had only grown larger since the last time she'd seen it. The abomination's tenticular roots quivered and swayed to the rhythm of the waves.

To her left, the Bridge was in sight, bereft of its usual misty shroud. She could see vague shapes moving to and fro upon it, mere shadows in the distance, but clearly the swampfolk were on the prowl.

"Move!" Pek ordered, poking her in the back with his pistol. She trudged into the water and sloshed across the Fjord, feeling helplessly vulnerable in the flat landscape. She stared dispassionately at the corpse of the mirelurk she had killed only the day before.

"Move!" Pek ordered again.

"If you do this, we're going to die." She said.

"_You're _going to die!" he snarled, "I'll be free!"

A sudden faint glimmer of hope flared in Sarah's chest as she stared at the mirelurk corpse, ignoring Pek's rant. There was a weapon down there… her old combat knife…

Pek gave her a shove and by accident, or design, she spilled over into the cold water, feeling it freeze her lungs and soothe her burned arm. She paddled downwards desperately, feeling the pressure beat on her eardrums. She opened her eyes and blinked against the stinging cold, trying to make out the location of the corpse. Her left hand brushed its hardened carapace. She grabbed an edge and pulled herself down, feeling the air in her lungs fighting to get out.

Working half by sight and half by feel, she found the mirelurk's face. It's body had been propped up by the remnants of her power armour. She stuck her hand inside and began to dig through the ichor, feeling for the combat knife. She could feel her heart pounding as the pressure in her throat increased. She let out a desperate stream of bubbles, trying to relive it. A brief stinging pain flowed up her arm as something sharp cut her finger. She found the cold metal object and pulled, her eyes bulging with the effort of holding her breath. For a brief, panic-stricken moment, it slipped from her grasp, but she found it again and gripped it this time by the handle, freeing it from the carcass. She kicked the shell frantically, letting out the last of her air as she fought for the surface.

The water parted and fresh air hit her face. Sarah gulped back lungfuls of the bitter air, hearing Pek snarling at her form the nearest sand dune. A jet of steam burst near her head as Pek adjusted his aim. The man was wading into the surf, delirious with anger. She dove under again and swam towards him, a flash of yellow blinding her as his second shot lit up the bottom of the pool. Sarah burst from the water once again, knocking his pistol away. She drove him back up the sand dune, pulling out her combat knife. She jabbed the knife into Pek's chest, just below the ribs.

He stared at her in shock, muttering a series of incoherent noises. She gripped the black handle tightly and began to push the knife in and out, cutting down towards his navel. The young knight put up no resistance, but instead watched her actions curiously, as if he were attending a sermon on mutilation. The laser pistol dangled briefly from his fingertips and dropped to the sandy dune. His flesh parted easily, the bloodless lips of the wound bulging outwards, exposing his organs to the cool open air of Point Lookout. At last she pulled out and took a few steps backwards, worried by his lack of reaction. A steady stream of blood trickled from the bottom end of the wound, staining his groin, and spreading down the legs of his pants.

They watched eachother for a few moments as the buoy bells ticked the seconds away. Then Pek gave her a clownish grin. His pulled the boy's map from his pocket and dropped it beside the pistol, then, to her horror, grabbed one edge of the wound, and pulled it further open. In the manner of a dapper businessman retrieving a pen from the inside pocket of his suit, he pulled out a glistening length of intestine and draped it over his shoulders as a whimsical scarf. He began to sing quietly, and as he did, he walked past her, and waded into the water. "I love those dear hearts, and gentle people… who live in my home tooown…"

His volume increased as he began swimming for the far bank. Sarah saw the figures on the bridge begin to move, reacting to the sound of the man's voice. She grabbed the map and pistol and slipped back into the frigid water, trying to keep the paper dry.

Pek had reached the far bank and began to run towards the marshes, and towards the bridge. Small flashes lit up the wooden structure as gunshots echoed across the sparse marshland. Pek screamed something and began to run towards the bog. The distant figures followed him, leaving the bridge barren.

Sarah paddled towards it, half walking, and half swimming towards the rivermouth. More gunfire echoed through the trees, and she could hear the guttural cries and strange accents of the Swampfolk.

She reached the bridge and clung to a balk of timber underneath it, taking a brief rest. The thin wooden planks creaked inches above her head, showering her with a small amount of sand. She held her breath as heavy grunts and booted feet stomped along the bridge above her. The very piece of timber she was gripping creaked and bent slightly as a heavy weight was placed upon it. Sarah leaned out ever so slightly. She could see the sole of a rubber boot, and coveralls spread over a grotesque paunch. The yochel leaned out over the water, searching the fjords for her. Her grip tightened on the timber. Her blood turned to ice, and she shut her eyes and tried to calm her heartbeat before she gave herself away.

The giant stood above her for a minute or more, searching the calm waters for anything out of place. Between the planks, she could see the head of an enormous axe, swinging gently for side to side, it's dull, rusted blade carried far too many notches from far too much use. And not all of it on trees, if the dark stains were any guess.

At last the giant man grunted and moved on.

Sarah gripped the wood tightly and guided herself to the shoreline where she crawled behind some bushes and took a few calming breaths. Then she slipped the map in her belt, and crept through the thick marshes into the dark heart of Point Lookout.

* * *

**This chapter took a while because it was originally supposed to include a thread which will be released as a separate short fic (after I'm done with this, that is.) Our original idea was too long and the chapter had to be retooled. Krow Blood and I have been hard at work trying to develop the plot of this thing, and making sure all the details were taken care of. **

**About Pek, I know. I know. Gross out factor. When I write this stuff, I try to scare ME. If I can't do that, I don't have a hope of scaring you guys. As said before, this story is rated M which means I can write with the gloves off. If it causes any of you any real problems then just remember this one simple fact: I could have made him eat it, not just wear it as a scarf.**

**I also thought it was about time we heard what was happening about the rest of the purifier.**


	19. Chapter 19

Aqua Vitae 19

Jackrum stared down at the bodies. There were six of them in total, though they were in such a sorry state that he was forced to count their left feet in order to confirm the number. Very little in the way of discernible features was left of their upper bodies. The black Talon Company armour had been shredded, sporting giant holes and cruel dents. Almost nothing was left of their heads, each one having been turned into mush by a hail of bullets. Matted scalp and bits of skull had settled on top of a large black pool of congealed blood. Shells and spent magazines peppered the entire area. The smell was horrendous, the hot wasteland sun having been beating down on the bodies.

As he examined the carnage, Jackrum waved away a couple of flies. He bent down to pick up an unused magazine of assault rifle ammo, and as he did so, something clinked gently against his foot. Half buried in the sand was a single golden shell casing. Jackrum picked it up and examined it. It was far cleaner than any shells the mercs used, and far heavier; the casing had been reinforced. The Veteran's gaze was drawn to the enormous holes in the armour of his dead comrades.

Jackrum began to search the ground for more of the special casings, and found seven more. That wasn't enough to account for the damage to his allies. Every shot fired had a spent casing, so where were the others? He look back down at the bodies, examining the way they had been laid out, and very carefully climbed up the slopes to stand on the ledge above the small wooden vault tunnel entrance. The plateau was saturated with dozens of the special rounds, and Jackrum brushed a few aside to reveal large heavy power-armoured footprints.

He traced their edges and warily examined the sun-beaten landscape, half expecting to see a vertibird, or the glint of Brotherhood power armour. He felt…vulnerable. Anything with the power to shred combat armour was a threat far greater than he could manage. Still, if it slaughtered the mercs, then it was probably on the Wanderer's side, and his own. Jackrum would just have to hope that it would give him a chance to explain that fact before it gunned him down.

* * *

Jackrum had ventured into a vault once before. Near the beginning of his career, he'd received word of a bounty which had been placed on an old-world violin sitting in a vault just west of Old Olney. He and his team had made it to the vault, but had been driven out by mirelurks.

The vaults were dreary, dilapidated, depressing crypts. Ghostly mausoleums dedicated to the false optimism of the old world. Jackrum hated them. As he slipped his way through the darkened halls, he could hear the strange white noise which came in the absence of proper sound. His own mind created it, trying to keep him distracted. _Anything_ was better than the deathly silence. He padded his way through the corridors,

The darkness pressed in, but that was okay, Jackrum had come prepared. He'd brought spray paint and an old lantern he'd retrieved from Fort Bannister. He used his glowing cigarette to light it, and proceeded into the maze of corridors. The bleak yellow light only revealed the hallway in three or four meters in either direction, but that was okay. Jackrum set about searching the upper level of the vault. He used the spray can to mark a trail back, as well as any rooms he had already searched. He worked systematically, trying to ignore the claustrophobic fear which had settled in his gut.

The rooms themselves were a depressing sight, full of skeletons and the rotted detritus of what used to be a happy, civilized place. The sights of skeletons were something Jackrum was used to. He had learned long ago that he had nothing to fear from the dead. It was the living people he had to worry about.

He descended a set of stairs and entered a large room. He judged it to be at least two stories deep, but as he leaned over the railing and peered into the darkness, he couldn't see the bottom, even with the aid of his lamp.

A few twists and turns lead him to another long corridor, and he stopped. The hairs on the back of his neck were raising, and that was never a good sign. He reached for his Chinese assault rifle and raised the lamp, trying to see farther along the hall.

A gunshot lit up the hallway and for an instant, an enormous figure was visible, standing ten meters away. It stood nearly six and a half feet tall and adorned in black power armour with high shoulder guards, an insectoid helmet, and glowing yellow eyes. At the same moment, Jackrum's lantern exploded, showering him in broken glass. He flinched, covering his face protectively. Heavy iron boots stomped towards him, and he was picked up and thrust against the wall, his feet hanging a foot above the ground. He could see nothing but the glowing yellow eyes. Hands had closed on his armour, lifting him and holding him in place. The pressure was just enough to keep him stuck there, yet he got the message that it could be rapidly and fatally increased at his attacker's will.

"Purpose?" the giant intoned, his suit's filters warping his voice, making it echo in the gloom.

"I'm just here for the Wanderer." Jackrum explained as quickly as he could, "I came to help him."

"You're Talon Company. Why would you care?"

"I don't like the man who shot him." Jackrum said, struggling to loosen the giant's grip. "Look, it's really complicated, but I'm on his side."

"Name?"

"Jackrum."

"The ally." The giant released its grip and he fell to the floor. Barely had he recovered before the power-armoured hand seized the harness of his armour and dragged him bodily into the depths of the vault.

* * *

The armoured guardian pushed him into what once must have been a medical bay. Gurneys were scatterd haphazardly across the brown floor. Scalpels, bone saws, bits of tubing, and other implements of the surgeon's craft lay scattered across the floor, and mixed upon rusted shelves.

In the center of the room, a gurney had been set upright. A man stood behind it, leaning over the body of the Lone Wanderer. A bright light was shining over his head, illuminating his work area. His head was bent down, throwing his face and body into shadow, yet a strange robotic glow still emanated from his left eye. It took a moment for Jackrum to realize that it was robotic. The surgeon was holding Fletcher's head down in one firm hand. The other was manipulating a pair of tweezers, gently slipping them into the open wound in the Wanderer's head.

"Who are you?" Jackrum demanded.

"An interested third party." The surgeon answered calmly. "I will not give you our names."

"And you're some kind of guardian angels?" Jackrum asked.

"I'm not here to see that he succeeds…" the man said, there was a soft organic noise as he gently twisted the tweezers. "I'm here to see _If_ he succeeds." He gently withdrew the medical implement. It came free with a pop, and clasped within its jaws was the small lead bullet, dripping blood. He surveyed it with a critical eye and dropped it onto a small tray beside the Wanderer's gurney.

The surgeon looked at his armoured guardian. "This has been a complete success." He said. "A full recovery. And no sign of the good Doctor's schemes."

"He has no agents here." The guardian replied.

"And why would he?" the surgeon asked, "This Capital Wasteland is a war zone. There's nothing to be learned here. Nothing to be salvaged. Nothing he could put to use." He looked down at Jackrum. "Just a few simple natives scraping a meager living off the bare rocks, hmm? Do not tell him about us. If you do, we will kill you."

Jackrum had heard a lot of threats in his time, but nothing chilled him to his bones more than the matter-of-fact nature of the man's promise. It wasn't a threat. It was simple fact. Nothing personal at all.

Jackrum felt the soldier release its iron grip. The surgeon disappeared into shadow, and Jackrum could hear the rustle of clothing. The man reappeared wearing a long brown longcoat and a fedora. His face was still in shadow. As he walked past Jackrum, he said, "I took the bullet out. Aside from that, he's on his own."

The power-armoured monster fell in behind him, and they were gone. Leaving Jackrum in the inky blackness, and the Lone Wanderer motionless on the gurney. A few moments later, the vault lights switched on. At least the strangers were considerate enough for _that_.

* * *

The swamp was an unearthly place, deserted by civilization, and left to its own devices. The ancient earth was pitted with stagnant algae-covered pools and shallow streams. Crawling vines and trees hung overhead, concealing the sky and blocking the light. Malevolent hanging moss shrouded the black thickets, and the ever-present fog limited her sight, so that as she moved further towards the heart of the marshland, new twisted copses and foul pools would melt into view, each more hideous and discouragingly primordial than the last.

The ground was patchy and uneven, full of treacherous sinkholes and moss-grown mounds twisting her ankles, entrapping her feet, and sabotaging her progress with every turn.

Sharp blades of dry grass cut at what little was left of her recon armour. Patches of brambles tore and clutched at her, dragging her backwards as she fought deeper into the marshes. Her wounded knee impeded her progress even further.

Yet she dared not step in the water, within which indistinct shapes splashed and slithered. The gloomy river had wide banks and a shallow bottom from which often rose large gas bubbles. The orbs would rise a few feet in the air, then burst, filling the surrounding swamp with an odor more foul than its typical primeval stench. Small insects buzzed and hopped back and forth across the river's surface, foreboding ripples spreading from each contact point.

She also did her utmost to avoid the cleared paths, marked by trampled undergrowth, and wooden poles. Small voodoo dolls, crucified and mangled, hung from the markers in broken streamers. Each branch was denoted by a larger spike, upon which sat skulls and heads, both animal and human. Sarah was horrified, though unsurprised, to recognize a few of the faces, most of them scribes . She steeled herself, tightened her grip on her combat knife, and continued.

Avoiding the swampfolk paths grew far more difficult as she ventured further in. The tracks, rare and untraveled in the beginning, began to intersect and cross eachother in the manner of the individual threads within a spider's web. As the she drew closer to the center, patches of dancing ghostly archaic light shone through the trees, and she could hear the distant crackle of bonfires and the beat of primal drums bound with flesh and sinew.

Sarah checked the map often, making sure to pick the right path whenever the river split and trying not to think about the child who had given it to her, or what his real motivations may have been.

Eventually the darkness of the forest opened up and she found herself crouched at the edge of a small clearing, surrounded on three sides by shallow murky swamp water. A cabin lay at the far end, its lit windows staring at her, as if caught in a spell of unblinking lethal stupor.

Just in front of it lay a small punga fruit plantation. The swampfolk walked to and fro between the rows of ghastly molar-shaped plants. Sarah's mind inevitably turned towards the memories of Tobar the Ferryman, and his ghoulish end. Yet the yokels seemed to have mastery of their crop. As warped and twisted as the sight was, it made plain to her that these beings bowed to nothing but Point Lookout itself.

Beyond the farm was an enormous crackling fire. It spouted black smoke, and the hot sparks flew high into the air before they were quenched by the damp mists. Malformed, hideous silhouettes danced, frog-like around the bonfire, waving axes and knives and baseball bats. A grotesque young man with wiry frazzled hair sat on a nearby tree stump playing a rickety old banjo. The sounds of their inhuman merriment filled her ears, and she felt disgust and hatred surge through her.

A puff of smoke drew her eye and made her freeze. Its origin was an enormous man, hidden in the shadows of the trees less than four metres from her. She ducked back further into the shadows as he limped forward on a pair of stiff tree-trunk legs. He stood well over six feet tall.

His neck and face were bloated and distorted as if by some cyst or cancerous growth, and he sported an enormous gut, far larger than his dirty white t-shirt could contain. In the swollen, clubbed fingers of his enormous left hand he carried the head of Knight Pek, blood still dribbling from a few meaty strands in the severed neck. In his right hand, the brute carried a fire axe, the head still covered in ichor. He waved it with worrying ease. A normal man would have had to use both hands to swing it, yet it fit in his grip like a hatchet.

Limping on his tree-trunk legs, the swamp dweller shambled towards the fire. Sarah began to move backwards, and felt her uninjured knee press down on a dry twig. Biting her tongue, she froze, trying to shift her weight off the offending branch before it broke and alerted the behemoth. She leaned sideways, feeling her wounded leg shaking under the weight. It gave way without warning, and she stifled a small cry of pain. Of far more worry was the loud crackling snap the twig made as her good leg landed on it with her full weight.

She froze, eyes shut tightly, wishing nothing more than to rewind her life. _Let it not have happened… please god…_ she thought desperately. IT took all her willpower to force her eyes open. The giant had turned, and was standing alert, searching the darkness with his one good eye. The other side of his face had been so warped by the land that his features were covered by the disgusting clotted mess. However his one eye glinted in the darkness, full of clarity and a certain intelligence. He turned to his dancing compatriots and roared in guttural, uncivil English. "Shaddup! There's sumthin' movin' round out there!"

He pointed with one clubbed finger in Sarah's general direction. All at once the ritualistic celebrations ceased, and silence fell over the marshes. Fear gripped Sarah, and she slithered backwards, trying not to make any noise. As she did so, the other swampfolk fell in behind the giant, and they began to spread out amongst the trees and brambles, searching for her.

She felt her feet enter the cool swamp water, and in a moment of desperation and adrenaline-induced clarity, she grabbed a hollow reed from a patch at the pool's edge. She pushed off with barely a ripple, stuck the reed in her mouth and allowed herself to sink to the bottom of the pool, the silt covering her and hiding her from prying eyes. A layer of algae slipped over top, hiding her form completely.

Water creatures slipped and slithered around her. Weeds pulled at her limbs and dragged her down. She reached up with one hand and pinched her nose to prevent the thick fluid from sliding down the back of her throat. She breathed slowly, sucking gulps of air through the thin reed.

Shouts of angry consternation reverberated through the water, and she felt waves wash over her body as a few of the swampfolk waded in after her. A booted foot pressed down on her injured knee, pushing her further into the soft mud, and she heard muffled conversation and a cry of anguish. The weight on her leg was released. More splashing followed, and then the water settled, and became still as glass.

In her murky tomb, Sarah listened hard, trying to discern whether or not the search had relented. She remained there for five minutes, counting away every single one of the three hundred seconds, waiting as patiently as she could for her heart to settle from a whine to at least a purr. Just as she began to rise, she felt a slight tremor. No more than a subtle ripple, sucking at the thin reed. She froze once again, breathing hard…

The water around her exploded into motion. She felt enormous hands plunge into the murk, grabbing her by her tattered uniform. She was hauled out, coughing and hacking. With a cry of triumph, the giant lifted her into the air, tearing her from the grasp of the swamp, and hoisting her up his one good eye.

"Found yew!" he cackled. Sarah thrust forwards with her knife, driving it at his eye. The giant tilted his head slightly and the knife sank up to the hilt in the growth on his face. Black blood bubbled out and poured down the contours, creating a ghastly landscape. The monster barely seemed to notice. She felt his clubbed, misshapen hand feel her out, patting her down. Perhaps he was searching for weapons, or perhaps for some darker reason. He said, " 'Ullo, Girly! I got sumthin' special fer yoo!"

Sarah kicked and struggled as hard as she could, trying to break his grip. He responded by easily tossing her against a tree. The air was blasted from her lungs, and a sharp stinging pain lanced through her back, paralyzing her. She felt blood pour down the side of her head. The days-old gunshot wound had reopened. The headache came with it, blinding and powerful.

The giant stalked forward and grabbed her again. The pain prevented her from offering nearly as much resistance, and when she tried, he simply squeezed the hole in her knee, filling her with crippling agony. He tucked her under an arm and dragged her towards the cabin.

As he approached the campsite, the other swampfolk began to hoot, laugh, and drool.

"We's eatin' meat tonight!" one of them howled, marching towards them. The giant dropped Sarah and pushed the spindly inbred backwards. Sarah struggled to her feet and tried to make a dash for the woods. The giant's hand landed on the small of her back, sending her sprawling across the rough terrain. As she slid, she sent a wave of black soil piling up in front of her. They didn't give her a chance to recover as her view of the misty swamp was immediately obscured by a burlap sack. She felt a rope slip on over it. The noose tightened, leaving her gasping for breath. Rough cords were tied around her wrists and ankles, biting into her skin and cutting off circulation. She was hauled to her feet and lifted into the air, only to be thrown over a lumpy shoulder. Stars and purple blotches began to seep into her vision as the pain, bloodloss, and exhaustion took their toll. The last thing she heard was a savage voice cackle: "Give her to the swamp! Ug-Qualtoth is hungry!"

* * *

**I was a little scared of doing this one because I wasn't sure if I could fully capture what I wanted to. But I couldn't really put it off any longer without dragging Point Lookout on too long. I had to get the swamp, and the swampfolk right. That was important.**

**As for Jackrum's scene, it's more groundwork. Please be patient. A lot of plot threads are being set up, and we're hoping the payoff will be well worth it.**

**Thanks for all your help and support so far. You keep reading and reviewing, and I'll keep bringing you the very best I possibly can.**


	20. Chapter 20

Aqua Vitae 20

The mysterious stranger sat on a small outcropping, staring at the distant figure of the Talon Mercenary as he waiting in his shack.

"Will he make it?" The distorted voice of his power-armoured ally asked.

"I believe so." The Stranger said, adjusting his fedora, "He has the right mutations. Whether he lives through Brutus' plans is another matter."

"He's young." The guardian observed quietly.

"We were all young once."

"He makes mistakes."

The Stranger laughed and tapped his left eye, producing a faint metallic click. "We all made mistakes. You included."

The guardian nodded and hefted his enormous BOZAR sniper rifle. "We should get moving."

"Patience. I'm rather curious."

The soldier let out a frustrated breath. "What about?"

"Given the right upgrades, he could very well be invincible."

"We'd have to get him on our side before that came to be of any use."

The Stranger nodded. "A solution will present itself, I have no doubt. Perhaps we can-"

"Don't think too far ahead." The guardian reminded him harshly. "He hasn't even passed the first test yet. Just wait and see."

The Stranger nodded. "Wait and see."

* * *

The swampfolk had dragged Sarah a long way. Further into the swamp, perhaps. Perhaps further to the beach. Her sense of direction had faded. Hopelessness and fear had descended upon her, and held her heart in a frozen iron grip. The giant brute over whose shoulder she had been haphazardly flung had marched her through the dank, snake-filled swamp, followed by a parade of savage goons, whooping and cheering. They seemed to have no problem navigating the knotted, treacherous terrain, and reached their dreaded destination in a very short amount of time.

A creaking door was thrown open, and a heavy noxious scent filled the air, making her gag. A descent was undertaken, and though her vision was obscured by the heavy cloth, Sarah had a strong impression of enclosed space. Water dripped on stone, and the cave echoed with the hiss and gurgle of gaseous bubbles bursting in the gloom. As the lithesome parade ventured further, a now familiar headache began to assault her mind. Voices whispering eldritch chants began to slowly waft through the thick cloth, though she was hard pressed to tell whether it was real, or a creation entirely her own.

Eventually she was set down upon her knees. Rough hands with long broken fingernails dug into her shoulders, holding her in place. The noose was slipped off her neck, allowing her to breath deeply, though the foul air of the cave did nothing to encourage the action. Her blind was slipped off, revealing a cramped, ill-lit space of blood-red rock, soft-glowing fungi, and low hanging stalactites.

Sarah's attention was drawn, despite her own feeble resistance, to the large pedestal in the center of the room, constructed of stone geometries to make Euclid weep, the sight suggested a malignant and inhuman architect. It's construction was such that it appeared to change as Sarah's perspective moved , and as she stared, she felt her headache increase tenfold.

A device sat upon the pedestal and even in her ruined state, Sarah still recognized its briefcase outline, and subtle machinery. She began to giggle quietly. A forlorn, desperate laugh. More a plea and recognition of the ridiculousness of the universe.

Atop the warped, alien pedestal sat the G.E.C.K.

Behind it was an ancient wall, it's angles consistent with that of the pedestal. The surface was smooth, and marbled with stripes and striations. Despite the corners and sharper edges having been softened with the passage of time, the material exuded an irrefutable atmosphere of adamantine timelessness. Before it, the swampfolk were spread in neat ranks, swaying gently as they chanted and prayed to their heathen god, Ug-Qualtoth. They spoke gibberish, mostly. Foul, uncouth, guttural syllables which made her spine tingle and her mind fill with dark thoughts, "G'yeth G'yeth Ug-Qualtoth arises in the deep temple, A great crack shall open in the earth and swallow the nonbelievers! And they shall weep, weep, weep! Tears of salt and earth and dirt!"

Their leader, a warped and spindly old man in a black cloak cackled down at her.

She glared back, fighting her own despondency, and determined to die with dignity. "Star-Paladin Sarah Lyons, Capital Wasteland Brotherhood of Steel." Sarah snarled through gritted teeth, struggling against the grip of her tribal captors.

The man turned revealing an ugly, bloated face. "Youse in Point lookout now." He leaned in and gave Sarah a winning, brown-toothed smile, "no one here cares who ya'are. All y'ar is a trespasser."

To her horror, a moan joined the hellish chorus, and a second captor, naked, was produced from the darkness and set down beside her. The subtle play of the torches provided Sarah with just enough light to make out his bloodied features.

She gasped, "Colvin!"

"Ug-Qualtoth, the great worm…" the man murmured repeatedly, his head lolling from side to side. He had clearly been drugged beyond any help. Bruises covered his exposed skin, and the swelling at his shoulder told her that he had received rough treatment from his hosts.

"Colvin! Wake up!"

She threw herself sideways, knocking her head against his own.

"Colvin!"

"He is in the service of our master!" the swamp priest exclaimed gleefully. "He only answers to one name now!"

"Ug-Qualtoth!" Colvin babbled, his eyes wild with unearthly joy. "The Great worm will swallow the heavens and all shall weep with joy for we are one!"

Sarah stared, stung by the betrayal of her last remaining ally.

"Oi think he's ready!" one of the goons behind her howled. This was followed by many jeers and laughter. They hung him from the ancient wall and cut him with a sharp old kitchen knife. Eldritch designs were traced and inflicted upon him. Their final act was to open him at the abdomen and string his intestines about his arms and neck in the manner of laurels. Sarah did her utmost to avert her eyes from the sickening sight, yet the power of the pedestal held sway over her mind and forced her to bear witness. No matter the damage they inflicted upon his body, Colvin's broken mind remained resolute, forcing him to prattle evermore about Ug-Qualtoth, his newfound deity.

The old priest, his cloak billowing out in great folds, held his arms aloft and spoke to the eviscerated knight.

"You live in the shadow of the great worm!" he declared.

"I do!" Colvin replied gratefully.

The priest stepped forward, spidery, blue-veined fingers stretched towards the man. "Your body belongs to the swamp, your mind to the ocean?"

"Yes!" Colvin crooned, wriggling his manacles. He began to fade in and out as his body succumbed to the swampfolk's minstrations. Blood pooled on the charcoal-black rock below his hanging feet. It flowed into a small pool of water, giving the black liquid thickness and weight.

"The old man's spidery fingers closed, almost tenderly, upon Colvin's face. He leaned in close to deliver his final question: "And your soul to Ug-Qualtoth?"

"It does!" the knight panted. "I believe in Ug-Qualtoth the Great Worm! Ug-Qualtoth bholo bo-me illisha-not mehailathail mot'chug ogog phao melzsa shotiq thudd yathosh tlamalarh ya-el; The great worm arises in the deep temple, A great crack shall open in the earth and swallow all! And I shall weep tears of salt and earth and dirt…" The knight's head slumped forward. With his last breath he uttered the name once again.

A scream echoed through the tunnels. It was the cry of an angry child, yet also an unearthly howl which stung the ears as would the sound of nails scraping a classroom chalkboard. And suddenly there, standing on the pedestal, to Sarah's everlasting horror, was the Pint-Sized Slasher in its bulbous clown mask. The sight stung her eyes, and she moaned in agony as the headache split her skull.

The swamp chieftain fell upon his knees before the phantasm, his arms outstretching in a fawning, decadent proclamation of adoration, "Ug-Qualtoth, the Great Worm, my lord we have brought these sacrifices unto you on this day!"

The ghostly child produced a long, rusted kitchen knife and pointed it, accusingly, at the swamp priest.

_You stole my toys!_

"But my lord…" the man began. It leaped at him, plunging the knife into his neck. Blood and ichor fountained upwards as the small figure leapt with inhuman speed and strength, moving from one tribal to the next, the torches flickering and wavering, the light flickered and danced, making Sarah dizzy. She sat still, staring at the altar, even as her captors died, gurgling around her. She realized, slowly, that she couldn't have moved, even if she wanted to, which she didn't. Or rather, _it _didn't want her to move, and was imposing it's will upon her. All she could do was sit as the noise of the massacre rose to the stone ceiling and beyond.

Then it was all over and she was kneeling in a pool of blood, staring into the bulbous mask of the Pint-Sized Slasher.

It released her from its sway and she leaned forward on her hands and knees. She vomited violently into the puddle, watching the acidic green fluids flow and mix with the inky red liquid.

_Let's play a game!_

She looked up at the small figure, standing on the altar. Behind it, Colvin was still hanging on the wall, his throat slit, entrails dripping. A clownish grin had a hold on his features, as it did on the dead swampfolk.

_Hide and Seek!_

"What are you?" she murmured.

The figure stamped its foot angrily, _Hide and seek! _Blood and small chunks of flesh slowly slid down the knife blade and dropped off the razor sharp tip, _You hide, I seek._

Sarah crawled past the phantasm, averting her eyes before the sight drove her to madness, and snatched the G.E.C.K., clutching it close to her chest.

_My Toy…_

She backed away a small amount, grasping it for all the world. Reality and her own mind were unraveling, and it remained the only anchor she had left.

_RUN!_ The thing ordered, and she felt her legs obey, carrying her as she slipped through ichor and scrambled up the twisting tunnel, dragging the anchor behind her. She could feel the phantasm's slow count down as it tolled her final seconds:

_One Mississippi_

_Two Mississippi_

…Daylight hit her face as she burst from the tunnel. It took less than a second to orient herself…

_Three Mississippi_

_Four Mississippi_

…Sarah ignored everything. The mist, the bugs, and grasping vines and malignant mosses. Swamp water churned about her ankles as she fought through the muck, headed for the distant sound of the buoy bells.

_Five Mississippi_

_Six Mississippi_

…She could hear the ocean now, the crashing waves giving her a renewed purpose… A goal…

_Seven Mississippi_

_Eight Mississippi_

…The mists of Point Lookout were thinning now, as she ran harder than she had ever done before, the very whips of hell itself driving her. The reliable weight of the G.E.C.K. in her arms, reminding her of who she was, and why she was.

Star-Paladin Sarah Lyons, Capital Wasteland Brotherhood of Steel…

_Nine Mississippi_

…And the trees parted! The glorious sight of the bright blue ocean greeted her weary eyes as her aching feet pounded down the sandy beach to the distant shape of the Duchess Gambit.

_Ten Mississippi_

…The boat grew larger, her purpose stronger, with every step. She could make out the water-logged wood of the docks, and the old haunting Ferris wheel creaked overhead.

_Ready or not…here I come!_

...The sand before her very feet erupted, throwing her aside. The grains gathered and twisted in a miniature whirlwind as the horrific figure rose from the beach, its bloodied kitchen knife clutched in one hand. The Phantasm's mere appearance sapped the last of her strength and will, and Sarah fell to her knees, her fatigue overcoming her. She felt its presence in her mind, directing her thoughts, and controlling her actions.

As she held up the G.E.C.K., trying in vain to shield herself, the ghost flickered for a moment. Just a moment. For the tiniest fraction of a second, in the child-thing's place, she glimpsed the coiling tendrils of some unknown ethereal amoebous mass. The last, feeble protection, the thin veil of hope the G.E.C.K., and escape offered her was not enough. Her mind twisted, bent, and finally broke.

"Ug-Qualtoth…" she murmured, though the words were not her own; she had none left. "Ug-Qualtoth bholo bo-me illisha-not mehailathail mot'chug ogog phao melzsa shotiq thudd yathosh tlamalarh ya-el; The great worm arises in the deep temple, A great crack shall open in the earth and swallow all! And I shall weep tears of salt and earth and dirt…"

With every syllable, the thing grew stronger, more solid. At last it reached her and laid its hand on her shoulder, the eyes of the clown mask staring down through her broken mind, and rending her soul into pieces.. She stared back up at it, her mouth hanging open, possessing neither the physical, nor the mental control, to keep it shut.

When the knife entered her, she hardly made a noise. A huffed breath; the result of the air being pushed from her lungs, but nothing more. She winced slightly, but the pain was secondary to the oppressive force of the phantasm's incorporeal will. The knife entered a second time, and then a third…

The creature at last, let her go, and Sarah Lyons lay in the sand, dreaming of eldritch worlds and endless, star-filled oceans. On the desolate shores of Point Lookout, Sarah Lyons died crazed, alone, and utterly devoid of hope.

* * *

Jackrum lit another cigarette and stared down at the body of the Lone Wanderer. His shoulders and legs ached. He had rarely felt so worn out. Dragging the boy out of the vault had been hellish. Jackrum was not an old man, and he considered himself to be very fit, all things considered. Yet it had been a long time since he'd had to drag a limp human being so far. He had found a corrugated iron shack about a half-mile south-west, and had constructed a small camp, arranging the boy so that the sun beat down upon the bullet wound. The rest was just waiting, and hoping Burke's intel had been correct.

He didn't dare ponder the two strange visitors who had helped the Wanderer, instead opting to thank his good luck and pray it held..

He hadn't been sure what to expect from the boy. In the end, the healing process was nothing special. Jackrum's view of the wound itself was obscured by dried blood. However after several hours, he began to notice a change in the skin color around the wound. Where before it had been grey and sickly, it was pink and fresh. A few hours after that, the boy began to mumble to himself, eyes working furiously underneath closed lids. It was a slow process and Jackrum had nothing to do but sit and smoke and think. The sounds were nothing more than unintelligible grunts and moans at first, but eventually became discernible words. Even names. 'James' and 'Amata' seemed to be favored, but there were others. Recognizable ones including that of Elder Lyons and Three-Dog. Jackrum caught more words as the young man's mind healed.

When he was feeling particularly confidant, Jackrum took a wet cloth and scrubbed the blood away. The gunshot itself, now no more than a cringe-worthy bruise, had closed completely. The entire episode made the old merc extremely curious as to his companion's origins and story. He tallied together a mental checklist of what he knew. For three long years, and Wanderer had been an almost mystic figure. A bogeyman created to frighten the younger mercenaries. What little was actually known about his story had been told through Three-Dog and Galaxy News Radio, yet nothing had been said about any special healing powers or anything like that. Nor had his curious assortment of weaponry been addressed. There was just too much that wasn't known. The Lone Wanderer had been born in a vault. Followed his father out, and traveled the wasteland, righting wrongs.

…And that's where the merc hit his first roadblock; how could anyone who had grown up in a peaceful vault possibly survive the capital wasteland? How had he not been eaten or shot in his first day? Travel in the Capital Wasteland required certain rules, and someone had to grow up there to know them. It had to be built in, not learned on the fly. The boy was either incredibly lucky, or there was far more to the story. The rapid healing suggested the latter. He must have acquired _that _particular ability early on to survive and accomplish all the things he had accomplished.

The boy's speech back in the Capitol Building came to mind. He'd suggested to the other mercenaries that the Invincible Ghost Lone Wanderer was all smoke and mirrors. At the time, Jackrum had more or less believed him. Yet now the Merc wasn't so sure. If the Wanderer could survive a gunshot to the head…

How would you kill a man like that? Dismemberment? Could he grow limbs back? Curiosity overtook him, and a small part of him was tempted to cut off a finger, just to see. But he reminded himself of Burke and the Supermutant, and refrained. Besides, when the boy woke up, he likely wouldn't be too pleased…

Lying on his small blanket, the boy stirred. Jackrum took a few steps back and double checked to make sure all the Wanderer's weapons were out of reach. As an added precaution, he removed his Talon Company breastplate. The last thing he wanted the Wanderer to notice was the white claw logo. Fletcher opened his eyes, peering blearily at his surroundings, his brain slowly working itself back up to full speed. Jackrum could almost see the moment when Fletcher began to register his predicament, his face twisting from confusion, to realization, to bowl-knotting anger.

Jackrum backed away slightly, puffing furiously on his cigarette. The boy paused for a moment, tensing up like a spring. Then he raised both of his hands to his hair and let out a howl of rage, raising his entire body form the blankets, seeming to unleash years of pent up frustration in one long drawn-out vocalization. His immediate energy spent, he collapsed once again on the blanket and looked over at Jackrum.

"Morning, sunshine." The Veteran said, tipping his cigarette at the Wanderer.

"I was in the vault…" the boy wheezed, rubbing his forehead.

"A vault." Jackrum blew out a cloud of smoke. "One-oh-six. Burke gave orders to throw you in there…"

"And you?"

Jackrum shrugged. "I treat most orders as suggestions. Besides, he's gambling with stuff he don't have the right to gamble with." He reached down to the duffle bag he'd brought with him and pulled out an assault rifle. He tossed it down beside the boy. "He's playing too many sides, but he isn't the biggest problem."

Fletcher sat up and rubbed his forehead. He picked up the assault rifle and gave it a meticulous examination, fitting his hand into the grip, re-familiarizing himself with the ancient weapon. When he looked up at Jackrum, there was a difference in his expression. An inner, animalistic strength. That inner wall which he had so long kept hidden behind the Meek Recruit persona had come forward. The Veteran suddenly found himself thinking of his companion not as Fletcher, but as the Lone Wanderer. Jason Howlett's grip tightened on his assault rifle, and Jackrum read the thoughts going through his associat's head.

"I didn't set you up, kid." He said. "If I were in league with them, you'd still be in the vault. I'm on your side."

The Wanderer was suddenly on his feet, his rifle pointed at Jackrum. Despite being unconscious not five minutes before, his aim was as steady as any Jackrum had ever seen.

"Why?" the Wanderer barked.

"He's setting up the Supermutants to take the wasteland." Jackrum explained. "Then he's going to double cross them and wipe them out using the PVP cure we found."

The Wanderer stared. "How do you know all this?"

"He figured I was on his side. Offered me two-hundred and fifty-thousand caps." Jackrum sighed. "I'd take almost any contract. Especially if it paid that well, but I kinda like the Wasteland, and he and Brutus plan to wipe it out."

"Brutus?" the Wanderer said sharply.

"You've seen him?"

"I know of the name. You've met him, then?"

"Had a nice little talk." Jackrum explained, and recounted all he could remember of his brief conference with the supermutant. The information didn't amount to much. Even after the Wanderer shared his own story about the Supermutants' vault origins, and their abandonment of said vault.

"What's our next step?" Jackrum asked, after their haphazard corroboration.

"Go after Burke." The Wanderer replied thoughtfully.

"It's Brutus we need to worry about, I think." Jackrum said.

Jason shook his head. "I've spent the last three years stockpiling weapons and ammunition in every major settlement. A proper resistance would be easy to organize, especially with the Brotherhood's help. Supermutants are easy to kill. But we can't let Burke go free with that virus. Or the cure. We need them both back."

"So what, then?"

The Wanderer grinned at him. "You attend Burke's junkyard meeting, you find out where the cure is, and then we kill him."

"You sure you're fit for a fight?" the old merc asked. "I mean you did just get shot in the head."

Jason rose to his feet. "I don't fight." He said, "I hunt. C'mon. we have some supplies to pick up on the way."

* * *

**I am aware that the race of supermutants did not originally start in vault 87. But Jason and Jackrum aren't.**

**As for Sarah's section, I've been reading a lot of Lovecraft, and I think it's beginning to show through. I wrote most of it at 3:00 in the morning, half asleep and thinking really strange stuff. I now understand the phrase "Writing Feverishly". I was so tired that writing it felt like a fever dream. Appropriate, given the content. I think it paid off though.**

**Anyway thanks for sticking with it thus far. Review if you want to see what happens next...**


	21. Chapter 21

Aqua Vitae 21

Aside from the occasional resupply at Moira's, Jackrum had never had much to do with Megaton. None of the residents were important enough to merit a bounty, yet the town was heavily fortified enough that an all-out attack was impractical; the spoils would not cover the losses. The additional fact that it was the Lone Wanderer's home, and that it was important enough to be on the Brotherhood's radar rendered its destruction out of the question.

Standing at the crater's rim, he stared at the nuke bomb in the center of the small town. Jackrum pulled out the bent cigarette pack from behind his breastplate and lit up a squashed fag.

"Follow me." The Wanderer told him, sliding down the steep dirt slope, only to reach and climb a flight of uneven stairs. The Veteran followed, ignoring the curious, and often hostile looks he received from a few residents. He was with the Lone Wanderer. That much was obvious to them, and it confused them. Yet they left him well enough alone, which was all he could ask.

* * *

Jackrum stared at the inside of the Wanderer's house. It became immediately obvious that the boy had traveled much farther than anyone else Jackrum had ever met. The old Veteran had, in his time, seen the occasional bobblehead. The children's' toys were scattered throughout the wasteland. He'd never seen them as important enough to pick them up. Yet in the corner of the Wanderer's room, the boy had amassed what was apparently an entire set.

Jackrum leaned against a handy locker and lit an idle cigarette. He could hear the Wanderer stomping around the second level catwalks. The dog, which at first had tried to tear his throat out, had stopped snarling and was laying silent, locked in its upstairs room.

"What are we doing here?" he asked, letting out puff of blue smoke.

"Collecting some supplies." Came the muffled voice, emanating from an upstairs room. The Wanderer suddenly jumped down in front of him, making Jackrum flinch. The boy pinched out the Merc's cigarette with his thumb and forefinger. "I'll thank you not to do _that _in here."

"I got to. It's medicinal." Jackrum grunted. The boy was dressed in his signature leather duster. Underneath it he was wearing a rather complex, and lightly armoured piece of equipment. Jackrum could make out a hood with an old, yet familiar yellow facemask. It had been the last sight of dozens of mercs. Possibly a hundred. Jackrum felt oddly privileged to have lived past seeing it for himself. Twice.

The boy pushed him aside and opened up the locker. "Right. A cure for life. Smoking can kill you, you know…"

"I'll have _you _know that my grandfather lived to be eighty-six years old." Jackrum replied as the boy distributed ammunition from the locker into his various pockets.

"Smoking?" the Wanderer asked, pulling out a black silenced assault rifle.

"Minding his own goddamned business."

"I bet he minded his own goddamned business in his own goddamned house." The boy replied.

Having no real response to this, Jackrum relented. He stuck the cigarette back in its case, saving it for later, and decided to use the time to study some of the posters hanging on the walls, depicting the different prewar landmarks.

"Is that the Natural History Museum?" Jackrum leaned in for a closer look. There was a creature in the poster, which had far too many teeth for any reasonable use.

"Yes." The boy answered.

"What the hell is that monster called?"

"A Tyrannosaurus Rex."

Jackrum examined the creature. "Rex, huh?"

"Yep. Lived around sixty-five million years ago."

"How do they know that?"

The Wanderer holstered a 10mm pistol, hiding it effectively beneath his duster. "They measure the amount of radioactivity in the thing's bones, and can tell you how old the monster is."

"Radioactivity, huh?" Jackrum grinned and turned to the boy. "Judging by yours, I'd say you were born around… twenty-some years ago?"

"Oh, you're a riot." The Wanderer gave him a dry look and slid a vicious knife into a sheath on his leg, again hiding it beneath the duster.

"So what's our plan? You look like you're prepping to fight a deathclaw…"

"We're going to hit Burke at the scrapyard. " The Wanderer explained, pulling out his red bandana. He began to fold it ceremoniously.

"He might be guarded by Mercs." Jackrum said thoughtfully.

The Lone Wanderer slipped the red bandana on over his short brown hair and tightened it. Then he pushed a few buttons on his newly reattached pipboy, and looked up grimly. "No survivors."

* * *

They paused on a hill during their trip to the scrapyard. Jason motioned for Jackrum to stop. To their west, in a sheltered valley between two rolling hills lay a nasty-looking irradiated pool. Jason ordered the old Merc to wait, and then strode calmly into the middle of the putrid green puddle. Jackrum watched curiously as the Wanderer waited, watching his pip-boy calmly. After a short time, he walked back up the hill and grinned at the old merc.

"What was that about?" Jackrum asked suspiciously.

"This is going to be a night fight." The Wanderer explained. "The sun isn't going to be there to help, so I needed to get irradiated. Let's get moving."

"I'm not sure whether to pity, or envy..." Jackrum told him.

* * *

Tuner, the newly minted Talon Company mercenary, stared out at the barren nighttime wasteland. When he'd been offered thirty-five hundred caps, he'd expected a little more than basic guard duty. Burke and set him patrolling the northern edge of the scrapyard. A fitting reward for his performance in the Capitol building. He had been expecting a squad to command. He wasn't greedy by nature, but he'd managed to save far more men than his immediate superior, and it seemed a logical progression. Burke and Jabsco had both shaken his hand and given him a formal 'commendation' and a hundred extra caps. It all seemed hollow. He remembered Jackrum, the merc who'd trained him. Jackrum had been the one to break through the mutant lines and relieve his beleaguered squad. The old sergeant had offered him a single line of congratulations: _You fight smart, like you did here…__You did a good job, Turner_. And somehow, it meant more. It was the tone which made the difference. The Old Sergeant hadn't treated him like an inferior. He'd treated him as an equal. As someone who could be relied upon to get the job done. For a merc still breaking in his boots, being regarded as worthy of them by the most experienced man in the organization meant far more than a man in a suit offering an Official Congratulatory Handshake. Still, Burke had offered him 3500 caps to guard, and a four-digit job wasn't to be sneezed at.

The wasteland shimmered, as if some unknown heat source were causing a mirage. Then, like ink seeping through cloth, the Shimmering gave way, revealing a nightmarish figure with a yellow faceplate. Turner had just enough time to register the brown duster before he was slammed silently against the nearest wrecked car. His rifle was gone. A strong gloved hand pressed over his mouth, muffling him, and he felt cold metal slide under his chin and press against his neck. Then his assailant froze, giving him time to think.

He knew what was happening, of course. The older mercs had told ghost stories around the fires at night. This was the Lone Wanderer, and Turner's life was at an end. Yet the figure hadn't cut his throat yet. It seemed to be waiting for something. Turner stared into the blank yellow faceplate. A cloud of acrid blue cigarette smoke drifted past, and Sergeant Jackrum stepped into view. "Evening Turner. I'll tell you what, you don't scream, my friend won't kill you. Deal?"

The Wanderer dropped him and backed up silently, awaiting Jackrum's instructions. Turner rose to his feet and dusted himself off furiously. He turned on the old veteran. "You're a traitor!"

"To what?" Jackrum asked.

"The Talon Company!"

"No." the Veteran shook his head thoughtfully, "Just Burke and Jabsco."

"Why?"

"Don't tell me you like Burke, kid." Jackrum said. "You've got gut instincts, same as me. He's bad news. I felt it in my gut the first time I saw him. Jabsco is his puppet-"

Taylor tensed up as a dozen other mercs charged around the corner and slid to a halt, staring at the Lone Wanderer in shock. Jackrum stepped between them and waved his cigarette. "Evenin' boys."

"We heard a noise…" one of them said.

"Is that…the Lone Wanderer?" another inquired uncertainly.

"Sure is."

"Kill'im!" a younger merc cried.

"Shut your gob, Hengel." Jackrum replied, "I taught you how to use that hunting rifle, and if you raise it now, you won't have time to pull the trigger. Just hear me out. That's all I'm asking."

"You _defected_?" the merc named Hengel asked.

Jackrum glanced back at the Wanderer and shook his head. "No. Just declared a truce. I know you all hate him. So do I." he turned back to the Wanderer. "I hate you."

The man gave him a thumbs up. Jackrum grinned and turned back to the worried squad.

"Listen to me! All of you! The Wanderer's bad. Burke is worse. He's leading all of us straight off a cliff. He's teamed up with the muties, and they're going to take the wasteland down."

"What's your proof?" Turner asked.

"My word." Jackrum said, "Which is worth more than caps around the wasteland these days."

"And mine." The Wanderer added. Jackrum realized that this was the first time any of them had ever heard the man speak. "For whatever it's worth to you. I'm trying to take him down. I need your help."

"You know how much he's paying us, right?" Hengel demanded, his incredulity seeping through.

"A thousand? Two thousand?" Jackrum guessed.

"Three fifty." Hengel told him smugly. "Just for guarding the scrapyard."

Jackrum stared at him, stonefaced. "I was offered two hundred and fifty thousand. And I turned it down because I knew that when he's through with our home, There won't be anywhere to spend it."

"So what?" Hengel asked, "It's thirty-five hundred caps!"

A few of the slower mercs nodded.

"Christ's sake!" Jackrum spat out his cigarette in disgust and stomped on it. "What happened to us? I can tell you, back when I joined, we had honor! We had pride! We were proper mercenaries! There were jobs we wouldn't do. Now all we're just faceless goons that the badguys can toss out to fuck things up for the good guys!"

A few members of the group were looking down at their feet in shame. Jackrum drove the point home. "Do you think Burke cares if you live? Do you think when the smoke clears, he'll give a damn? No! he doesn't care about you at all." He met each of their eyes. "It time for us to stand up for our home. Maybe we do hate everything in the wasteland, but it's _ours _to hate. It's ours to fuck with! Not Burke's! I'm standing up for my home. I'll do it with you, or despite you. But I'm doing it all the same. Are you in, or out."

"I'm in." Turner said, standing beside him.

"Me too." Said another Merc. Jackrum recognized him as one of the mercs who had been under Turner's command during the Capitol building strike. Two others came forward. Both of them had been recruited with Fletcher/Howlett/whatever he called himself.

One by one, the young group caved, leaving Hengel, fighting an inner battle between greed and peer pressure. At last he sighed and said, "Alright. What's the plan?"

"What do you guys know?" Jackrum asked.

"Jabsco's here." One of them told him somberly, "He's got _his_ gang with him."

Jabsco's gang. If Jackrum was one of the Old Breed, and Turner was a new entry, Jabsco's gang were the middlemen. Those with greed, experience, _and _dreams. The bullies and abusers. Under Jabsco, they had thrived and taken over. They were the ones responsible for the Talon Company's reputation, and they made Jackrum's fists itch.

"We can't win in a fair fight." Turner said.

"Good." Jackrum grinned, "I hate those." He stared at their flummoxed faces and sighed, "Squad Command 101, boys. The fair fights are where you take the heavy losses. Me? I like to fight _unfair_."

* * *

Burke raised his wineglass and gently clinked it against Daniel Littlehorn's own. The noise echoed through the well-lit steel shack. Behind him, he could hear the sound of their clerks and agents milling about.

"To the Legion." He declared happily. "May our victory over the profligates and abominations be swift and merciless."

"Do not count your winnings until the game is over." Littlehorn replied. He set his glass down. "Although I must say I'm impressed, Burke. Despite your overconfidence, it looks as though the winds of war are finally favoring us."

"_What_ hasn't been accounted for?" Burke scoffed. "The Wanderer is dead, and the only Mercs who knew have been paid off in full. Brutus' army _will_ crush the Brotherhood." He reached down and patted the suitcase beside him. "This cure will crush them. We can mop up the rest with the talon Company, and then move in and wipe them out. The Capital Wasteland will belong to C-" He paused as a commotion echoed outside. The door burst open and Commander Jabsco strode forward, dragging a helpless young Talon Company Mercenary behind him. He stopped a feet back from Burke and tossed the young man before him. "Tell them what you told me! Sirs, we got bad news."

"I want payment for this!" the young man quavered, staring into Burke's cold eyes.

Burke waited a moment, letting the shock settle, then said, "You shall have it, depending on the importance of the news, mister...?"

"Turner! And It's Jackrum, sir!" the young mercenary said rapidly, "He's trying to lead a rebellion! He's got all the other recruits under his command! Their marching on the scrapyard!"

Burke stared down at him, then turned back to Littlehorn, who was wearing an 'I told you so' expression.

"Jackrum is an old fool." Jabsco said. "I can manage him… for a little extra." He raised his eyebrows pointedly.

"You will get your money when the Veteran's head is on my desk." Littlehorn declared coldly. Jabsco grinned and headed back out into the scrapyard.

"He's got the Wanderer with him!" the young man added.

Burke pounded the table angrily. "Damn that profligate!"

"I told you not to trust him." Littlehorn reminded him.

"I _know _what you said!" Burke snarled back, "What kind of dissolute refuses a quarter-million caps in favor of certain death? Only Legionaries-"

"Just because the Legion has a strong moral code, it does not preclude the possibility of others following their own." Littlehorn said harshly, "And now I'm paying for your arrogance. Get the cure out of here. The Plan is still in motion. The Wanderer can question me all he wishes. Just get the cure out of here! Do _not_ tell Jabsco that the Wanderer is among his enemies as he is a coward, and he will run."

Burke glared down at the young mercenary. He grabbed the case and burst out the door, disappearing into the capital wasteland.

"What are you all waiting for?" Littlehorn demanded, glaring at his clerks, "Get out there and help Jabsco put this rebellion down. They rushed out the door after Burke. Littlehorn rose slowly and circled around his desk. He examined the young mercenary, who had gotten to his feet, dusted himself off, and retrieved his assault rifle.

"You stay here. I need a bodyguard, and you're loyal."

"Yessir." The kid readied his assault rifle, pointing it at the door.

"There's always a place in my organization for young men of promise." Littlehorn added, cementing his new protégé's loyalty. "I can assure you that your actions will not go unrewarded."

The old man could hear shouting and, after a moment, the sounds of gunfire. From the sounds of it, Jabsco's hands were full.

"What was Jackrum's plan, exactly?" Littlehorn asked. The butt of Turner's rifle hit him in the face, and he cried out, crumpling to the floor.

"To kill you, sir." The boy said in complete honesty, bringing his rifle to bear.

* * *

**Things finally get moving. This should be a relatively quick double-update. **


	22. Chapter 22

Aqua Vitae 22

An hour had passed between the moment Jackrum had started to plan, and the moment the battle began. Jackrum did not believe in fighting fair. Especially not when the opposite team had more experienced players. He and the Wanderer had agreed that any battle, won or lost, with Jabsco was pointless if Burke were allowed to get away. Whatever happened, Jackrum was on his own. He and his motley crew were to keep Jabsco's mercenaries busy while the Wanderer went after the cure.

The scrapyard was made up of piles and walls of broken down cars, buses, tires, and railcars, divided into two sections by a large square concrete structure two stories in height, and covering the area of a full city block. The giant magnetic crane used to be seated on top of it, but had long since fallen over. It cut the battlefield in half, forming two narrow killzones the western of which, in a moment of foresight, had been heavily mined by Jabsco's own crew. Jackrum had assigned five sharpshooters to supplement the defenses. He had also placed four scouts around the outer edges of the battlefield, watching carefully. If the merc boss were to flank, Jackrum would have some warning, and some time to adjust. He didn't expect it, though. Jabsco liked to beat his opponent head on. Simple maneuvers and the idea of mildly complex tactics weren't in his MO.

The recruits had a few advantages, however, the first of which being Jabsco's overconfidence. No one thought much of new mercenaries. They tended not to last very long. In Jabsco's Talon Company, the road to respect as comrades and opponents was a long and rocky one. Everyone knew recruits couldn't fight. They'd expect them to be easy prey.

The second advantage also had a lot to do with how Jabsco ran the Talon Company. The more experienced mercenaries always like to carry laser rifles. It was a status symbol, and a terrifying weapon to be faced with, but in a night fight, the moment a trigger was pulled, the fighter's position was revealed to every single enemy on the battlefield. Useful for recruits who hadn't yet learned how to read a firefight. The lightshow would allow them to locate and count their enemies, whose night vision would be impaired simply by the bright lances of their own weapons.

Even with the countermeasures in place, Jackrum had to admit the fight would be a hard one. No plan ever managed to survive enemy contact intact. Jabsco's mercenaries were experienced, and they had gotten that way by always being alive at the end of battles. As far as the recruits had been able to tell, Jabsco's mercenaries numbered in the upper-thirties. Jackrum, after sending out his specialists, had roughly twenty, most of whom were still breaking in their boots.

He crouched behind a broken car, a sniper rifle shouldered, it's crosshairs resting on the door to the small rusty shack. Turner was dragged inside, according to plan. A few moments later, Jabsco rushed out, and began to gather his forces. Burke followed him, glancing around discretely and disappearing into the wasteland. Jackrum noted a slight shimmer in the air, which seemed to follow the man as he left the battlefield.

An enemy merc stood, hefting a rocket launcher. Jackrum swiftly put him down, planting a bullet in the soft unprotected tissue of the target's lower abdomen. All at once Jackrum's recruits opened fire from their various positions, already having taken cover behind rocks, derelict cars, and abandoned tires. Just like that, battle was joined.

* * *

Jason spotted his prey standing on a hillock a fair distance away, watching the scrapyard carefully. The briefcase containing the cure was sitting in the grass beside him. Jason wasn't stupid. A stupid man would have announced his presence, or tried to close in, but the Wanderer took his time, sneaking around behind Burke. Jason crouched, steadied his aim, and placed the crosshairs of the Perforator on the back of Burke's head.

He took a deep breath in, counted to five, and let it out halfway, watching the man's unmoving head. His grip tightened on the trigger. Burke span suddenly, crouching, and Jason lost sight of him just as he pulled the trigger. The bullet flew high, getting lost in the evening sky. The world erupted in a shower of blue light and electric arcs. Sparks and tiny bolts of electricity crawled all over Jason's stealthsuit, disabling it. It took him a moment to figure out that burke had let off a pulse grenade.

A moment was all his opponent needed, however. His silenced assault rifle was yanked from his grasp and tossed away, and less than a split second after that, Burke's heel impacted the Chinese stealthsuit's faceplate, smashing it, and grinding the glass fragments into Jason's nose and cheek.

The Wanderer sprang away, tearing off the stealth hood and dropping it to the ground. He reached for his pistol, feeling two bullets pound into the chestplate of the stealth armour. Their impact left his chest feeling beaten and bruised, but he tried not to let it show. He brought his 10mm up and blew Burke's gun from his grasp. The man didn't give him time for a second shot, bringing his fist down in a hammer strike on Jason's wrist, knocking the pistol from his grasp.

Jason punched out towards the man's face. Burke easily flicked the clumsy blow away, and drove his knee into the Wanderer's stomach, knocking him back to his knees.

Jason sprang up again, just as fast as he had fallen. He drew his trenchknife, and took a pose, watching Burke carefully. The man smiled at him, pulling a set of spiked knuckles from his pockets. He slid them over his fingers daintily, saying, "Do you honestly think you would have caught me unprepared a _second _time? I've learned to be far more careful since then." He sighed. "I suppose Sergeant Jackrum let you out…"

Jason sprang forward, throwing a haymaker with his free hand. He held the knife back, prepped to slice at the opening he expected Burke's block to create.

Instead of blocking, Burke ducked the blow and moved in, hitting Jason's jaw with a stinging uppercut. The wanderer made to stab him in the soft tissue below his ribs, but Burke's brass-knuckled hand came down and impacted the inside of Jason's elbow, making his arm go numb. At the same time, the man snaked his foot around Jason's ankle and pushed, sending the Wanderer sprawling to the ground. Burke circled again as Jason recovered, transferring his knife to his one good arm. He could feel the bruises left by Burke's gunshots as they healed. The wounds on his face were also aching less. He felt thankful that he had taken the time to get irradiated.

"I confess, I find myself disappointed..." Burke said, straightening his suit, "I expected more from the Lone Wanderer."

"Jackrum told me your plan. What was your endgame, Burke?" Jason demanded as they circled. "What does wiping out our entire civilization do?"

"Civilization?" Burke sneered, "You haven't _seen _civilization, Wanderer. The pitiful, primitive remnants picking their way through these ruins, barely living from day-to-day… can hardly be called anything but a pathetic blight, and an obstacle impeding our progress."

"Whose progress, burke? Who do you work for?"

"I will die before I give up that information to _you_."

"Oh, you will die." Jason promised grimly, "You blew up my father's purify-"

"And I'm sure you cried and sniveled like the child you are." Burke spat, "You would be amazed just how tiny and inconsequential that achievement actually was."

"Trying to get me angry?'

"Telling you the truth, as only one who has seen the world can."

Jason shook his head. "You're nothing but a distraction, Burke. The few hundred supermutants waiting in the D.C. ruins are the problem now."

Burke laughed. "A few hundred? My dear boy, whether I live to see it or not, you will not survive the coming storm."

"I have armories set up all over the capital wasteland." Jason snarled, "No mutie can get within a quarter-mile of any of the towns. They feed on the mercs and scavengers."

Burke just smiled.

Jason charged, his knife in a combat grip. He was swinging it down at Burke's neck, driving the man backwards. Burke caught his arm and twisted, trapping it under his own shoulder. He smashed his other fist into Jason's kneecap, shattering it. He delivered a final, brutal blow to the solar plexus. The Wanderer was left bent double, clutching his knee and gasping for breath. Burke reached down carefully and plucked the knife from Jason's unresisting hand.

"I'm almost insulted." He said. "I've trained since childhood to fight and win. Those who lost, usually died. I would have expected something special from you. But you're just as every other weak-willed profligate. Too reliant on your weapons and armour and special technology. If it can die, one can kill it through force and will alone."

There was a sickening, painful crackle as Jason's kneecap reformed. He coughed and made to rise. Burke kicked at him, trying to keep him down but the Wanderer caught the man's knee and pushed upwards, standing, and driving both of them past the dropped firearms. Instead of hopping backwards to adjust, which would have been the end of him, Burke stepped forwards, closing the distance. He whipped his captured leg back and forth, loosening Jason's grip. At the same time he delivered a ringing left hook to the side of Jason's head and drove the newly acquired trench knife deep into the Wanderer's shoulder. As a last gesture, he grabbed Jason's hair and drove his knee into the wanderer's face, breaking his nose a second time. Then he kicked off, putting yet more distance between them.

Burke sighed. "Pathetic. I'm getting insulted, Jason. It's almost as if you aren't even trying to kill me."

"Oh I wasn't trying to kill you, Burke." Jason laughed, blood pouring from his chin, "I just wanted to get my gun back."

Burke's gloating look faded as the Wanderer got to his feet, the sleek black scoped assault rifle nestled comfortably in his arms. He raised it. Despite his extensive facial injuries, and wounded shoulder, the Wanderer's aim was as steady as ever.

"You're just like the rest of your pathetic excuse for a civilization!" Burke snarled through his pain. "Weak. Too reliant on guns and armour and medicines. The coward's way out."

Jason emptied his entire magazine into the man's chest and shrugged, smoke curling from the tip of the assault rifle's silencer. He said, "It does the job."

He slung the assault rifle back over his uninjured shoulder and walked forward, Watching the dying man carefully. When he reached Burke's head, he looked down. The man wasn't quite dead. His chest was covered in blood, staining his dapper suit, but he glared up at Jason with hate-filled, defiant eyes. He had ten, maybe fifteen seconds of life left.

Jason brought his heel down on the man's nose, evening the score. Then he recovered the briefcase, slung Burke's corpse over his shoulder, and headed back towards the scrapyard.

* * *

The battle had begun badly for Jabsco's mercs. Jackrum's plans had worked in his favor, turning the opening salvo into a flat-out ambush. Jabsco had given his men orders to asset up a defense, assuming that the attack was incoming, and not knowing that it had already started. The opening seven seconds finished off seven of Burke's mercenaries, destroying his numerical advantage. He had been forced to retreat into the maze of derelict cars piled west of the shed, giving up a lot of ground.

Yet the opposition wasn't finished by half. Nothing fights harder than a cornered animal, and they'd had a lot of practice at winning. The move gave them damned good cover, and they were using it. Beams of light lanced through the hundreds of gaps and broken windows, wounding a few unlucky recruits, and killing a few more stupid ones. The rest of Jackrum's gang stayed safely behind their cover. The accuracy of the laser rifles had resulted in a stalemate. Jabsco's groups was pinned, unable to advance or retreat, but Jackrum's were equally pinned, the effectiveness of the laser rifles preventing him from moving up and finishing the job.

A lull fell over the firefight, the peaceful intervals between each exchange growing longer and longer. He leaned carefully over the hood of his car, watching through his sniper scope. He caught sight of occasional movement within the car fort. A helmet appeared within the window of a blackened, skeletal bus. Jackrum aimed at the paper-thin wall beneath it and pulled the trigger. He heard a cry of pain from his target, echoing through the scrapyard and telling him the bullet hat hit its mark. In response, a ray of light flashed out from the door of the bus. It flashed across the battlefield, through the window of his car, hitting the young recruit who had taken cover behind it. His comrades responded by bathing Jabsco's fort in bullets.

Jackrum dropped his rifle and crawled to the young man, who was crying hysterically.

"Calm down, kid." Jackrum ordered, pulling out his combat knife. He took a quick survey. The boy's shoulder had been hit, his scorched shoulder-pad taking the majority of the fire. Jackrum cut it away revealing the raw, burned skin beneath. He quickly pulled out a small bandage and soaked it in water from his canteen. He pressed it to the wound and slapped the boy's hand over it.

"Relax kid, you won't lose the arm."

The night was lit up by more flashes. The Veteran peeked up again to see a lone figure dashing from the shed to the nearest piece of cover, the ground around him being painted with black scorch marks. Jackrum brought his rifle to bear on a distant enemy who had poked his head out a little too far, trying to finish off the runner. The sniper bullet missed, hitting the man's cover instead, but he got the message and disappeared.

The runner seemed to be in deep conversation with his comrades. Then to Jackrum's astonishment he broke from cover again and raced towards the Veteran's position, the beams of light flashing all around him. He dove over the hood of Jackrum's car and grunted, landing heavily in the dirt beyond. He grinned at Jackrum. It was Turner.

"Evening Sarge."

"Glad you didn't decide to sit out in that shack all night, kid." Jackrum replied, pulling out a cigarette as lasers sizzled through the air inches over his head. Apparently Jabsco's comrades had taken their inability to hit the runner quite hard. He held up the thin white cylinder experimentally and grinned as the lasers' heat ignited the end.

"What's happening, Sarge?" Turner demanded.

"They're dug in over there as tight as a tick. We're stuck over here." Jackrum sucked thoughtfully on his cigarette, waiting for the barrage to cease. "It's turning into a long night." The sky darkened as Jabsco's mercs gave up on hitting him. Jackrum raised his sniper rifle again and fired a few shots into the aged husk of the former bus. He was rewarded with another fruitless attempt to kill him.

Turner peeked out from behind cover, watching the battle for a moment. He ducked back down again. "We've lost nine people, Sarge."

"I'm sorry, kid."

"How many of them did we get?"

"No idea."

Turner poked his head out again. He leaned over and pulled a hunting rifle from the wounded recruit's grasp. He took aim and fired at the distant stronghold. "This is kinda pointless, Sarge."

"You got any better ideas, kid? We can't take them head-on. They'll cut us to pieces." Jackrum shouted, exchanging fire with an unseen gunman.

"You've got nine sharpshooters out there, not to mention the scouts." Turner replied. I'll take them around back. When I open fire, you move in."

Jackrum grinned behind his sniper rifle, his cigarette bobbing whimsically. "Go kid, we'll keep them pinned."

* * *

The scouts had been easy enough to find. A few had taken the imitative and already started sniping at Jabsco's forces on their own. As Turner led them around the northern edge of the scrapyard, he couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. He felt like a proper mercenary. A fighter. _This_ was what he'd been hoping for. To make a real difference when it counted.

Jabsco, on the few occasions when he'd descended from on high to speak to the new recruits, had struck Turner as an arrogant bully, and the recruit was feeling extremely smug about outwitting him.

He crawled up to the edge of the overhang and looked down into Jabsco's junk fortress, trusting the darkness of the night sky. Seventeen of the hardened mercenaries were left, all of them facing away from him, crouched behind cover, exchanging fire with Jackrum's forces. He crawled back to his nine sharpshooters and pointed at each of them.

"First from the left."- "Second from the left."-"Third from the left."-"fourth from the left. Don't shoot until after I do."-"First from the right, second from the right, third from the right, fourth from the right, fifth from the right. Don't shoot until I do." He motioned them forwards and waited, giving them time to get a bead on each of their individual targets. Then he rested his rifle on the concrete edge of the bluff, took aim at the back of the merc who appeared to be giving the orders, and fired. The man screamed, dropping to the ground and clutching his chest. All at once, the rifles to either side lit up in deadly chorus, but Turner was already pulling back the bolt of his hunting rifle, pumping another round into the chamber…

Jackrum grinned as a fan of smoke spread from the top of the cliff. He could hear the chaos and turmoil the ten bullets had thrown Jabsco's defense into. He sprang from cover, motioning to what was left of the recruits. "Move! Forward!"

Sometimes you could plan. Strategize. Aim. Think. Other times you just had to trust lady luck not to let you down. As Jackrum pounded towards the enemy location, feeling the smoke-filled air tearing his lungs to shreds, he cleared his mind. It wouldn't do to contemplate death at a moment like this. It slowed you down. And the slow made good targets. He could hear his recruits falling in behind him. They flowed over the barricade, firing from the hip, and cutting down the resistance.

Jackrum was the first over the barricade. He saw the nearest enemy taking aim at Turner's sharpshooters, and leapt, bearing the man to the ground and pounding his skull in with the butt of his rifle. The recruits followed, spilling into the enclosed space like a swarm of angry hornets.

Jackrum heard a scream of rage from behind him. He turned to see an angry opponent rushing at him, rifle raised like a club. Jackrum responded by kicking the man in the balls. He pressed his rifle to the man's chin and let off a three-round burst, then headed off to find the next target.

In hand-to-hand, the win came to those with the fiercest instincts and the most allies. There was no room for finesse, and Jackrum's recruits learned quickly that anything was a weapon. It could be a knife, a rifle… Even the rusted car doors. Anything with sharp edges or hard surfaces. They held the advantage; Turner's surprise attack had left Jabsco's survivors outnumbered two to one, and with no room to exercise their accuracy, they were smothered by two or often three different recruits, piling on top and beating them into submission. Or worse.

Suddenly cries of "I surrender!" were echoed across the battlefield. Jackrum grabbed a recruit and pulled him off a broken, bloodied, and protesting mercenary.

"You don't hurt him kid. Not if he surrendered." He growled. The recruit glared at him, but stayed put.

"Sergeant Jackrum!" A hostile voice shouted above the noise of the dying fight. Jackrum grinned, spotting Jabsco. The merc boss was trapped in the corner, holding three recruits off by waving a knife at them. He glared at the Veteran. "Jackrum, come on over here! Let's settle this like men! You going to let these greenhorns do all the work?"

Jackrum walked over slowly, taking his time. He stopped about ten feet away and carefully pulled his cigarette packet out from under his breastplate, giving Jabsco time to consider his position. The Veteran waved his recruits off.

Jabsco straightened up and adjusted his armour. "You're in real trouble, you know that?" he said smugly, "Do you have any idea what Burke's people do to traitors?"

Jackrum said nothing, putting all of his concentration into striking a match on the sole of his boot.

"And When that mutant hears about this…" Jabsco continued, his voice lacking in enthusiasm; Jackrum's disinterest was sucking the wind out of his sails. He rallied as best he could by holding up his knife. "C'mon, old man! Let's settle this! Man to man!"

Jackrum held the lit match up to his cigarette, the small yellow light illuminating his unshaven face and creased eyes. He dropped the match and took a long drag on his cigarette. "That's how you want to settle it, then?"

"Yeah!" Jabsco snarled. "I'm not going to be killed off by a worthless runt!"

Jackrum nodded carefully. He turned to the nearest recruit, took the man's assault rifle, and opened fire, blowing a clean hole through Jabsco's throat. He handed the rifle back and turned away. "Turner!"

"Here, Sarge!" The boy jogged up to him, beaming from ear to ear.

"Don't look so happy, kid." Jackrum told him, "Just count your bits and pieces every day. If you get the same answer as yesterday, thank your lucky stars and move on."

"Yes Sarge." The boy did his best to hide his smile.

Jackrum sighed. "I want two piles. One for their dead, one for ours. Burn the bodies and cover the blood puddles with sand."

"What about the prisoners, Sarge?"

Jackrum glanced over at the sulking line of kneeling mercenaries. In the background, he could hear the cries of the wounded soldiers on both sides.

"They'll carry the wounded." He decided. "Set some men you trust to guard them, and have the rest scour this place. There's plenty of junk lying around. Make some stretchers. We got ourselves a long trip back to Fort Bannister."

"Yes Sarge. What are you going to do?"

"Smoke the rest of my cigarette, for starters."

Jackrum waited while Turner handed out the orders, then wandered quietly through the scrapyard. His feet lead him over to the rusted shack, and he opened the door gingerly. Two gas lamps lit up the empty room. Lying against a desk at the far end was an old man, full of bullet holes. Burke was lying next to him, equally as damaged.

"Sergeant."

Jackrum turned. The Lone Wanderer was leaning against a desk, pulling shards of glass out of his face. Jackrum watched as the wounds slowly closed. Eventually he nodded at the corpses. "You killed them?"

The Wanderer shook his head. "The old man was dead when I got here…"

Jackrum nodded. He noted the Wanderer's broken nose. "Burke put up a fight…"

"Yes he did." The Wanderer reached down and picked up a familiar suitcase. "The Cure is in here. It's going to the Brotherhood."

Jackrum nodded again, satisfied. "As it should be."

The Lone Wanderer paused for a second, thinking hard. Then he held out his hand and said, "Thanks for the help, Sergeant."

"I suppose it's Commander now, kid." Jackrum shook it firmly. "Don't expect any more trouble from the Talon Company. God knows how I'm going to pay my boys, though…"

"Send an ambassador to the Citadel. Drop my name at the door. They're always looking help. And they have the caps to pay."

"Thanks for the tip, Fletcher."

The Wanderer walked over to the desk. He picked up the old man and heaved him over one shoulder. "It's Howlett. Jason." He made his way to the door, picking up the suitcase as he went. "Burn Burke's body. Ashes to ashes."

"And Dust to Dust." Jackrum answered as the Wanderer disappeared.

The new commander of the Talon Company stared down at Burke's dead corpse for a moment longer. Then he stepped outside into the cool night air, and finished his cigarette.

* * *

Sonora Cruz looked up from her paperwork and into the grinning, unshaven face of Mendoza. He tipped his hat. "Ma'am."

"Anything to report?" she asked.

"Just a little disturbance in the Brahmin pen." He answered.

"What happened?"

The man's grin widened. "I think you'd better come out and see for yourself..."

He lead her out of the two-story shack and across the wide livestock pen, over to the pile of Brahmin manure, which was surrounded by a dozen regulators, their brown longcoats flapping in the breeze. As she neared them, the crowd parted and she could make out the shape of a body lying on the stinking pile. It was an elderly man, clearly dead. A railway spike was sticking out of his chest. There was a note attached to the railroad spike. Sonora leaned down and ripped it off, reading it aloud for the crowd's benefit:

"Daniel Littlehorn, courtesy of the Lone Wanderer. P.S., Leave the Talon Company alone from now on. They're under new management."

* * *

**This was a relatively fast double-post.**

**Full out battles are very difficult to write, but very fun. I wanted Burke to be a real challenge to Jason. It serves as a testament to his origins. The story is not over yet.**


	23. Chapter 23

Aqua Vitae 23

The basement was rotten. Unkempt. No more than a glorified crawlspace. The floor had been laid with large, neatly cut bricks, carefully fitted with thin seams connected by smoothed mortar. The majority of space had blocked off behind a haphazard concrete block wall. It was filled with what at first glance appeared dirt and refuse, but within which was contained the skeletons and remains of hundreds of innocent people. Businessmen, tourists, laborers... men, women, and children. More recently, castaways, drifters, adventurers, smugglers and scavengers. Those who had dared to tread Point Lookout's unholy paths. Thos who had trusted the wrong ally, or mistaken a frail old man for an easy target. They had all ended up in that cramped basement. Spectators to the grisly rituals which took place there.

A pedestal, much like that of the swampfolk, sat in the center of the confined space. Though its construction and appearance was natural, unlike its twin contained in the ancient subterranean ruins, it nevertheless awoke great unease in those who viewed it.

Two holes had been drilled on either side of the pedestal. Brackets, each with a burning torch, fit neatly inside them. The flickering yellow light of the torches gave shape to the stirring shadows which writhed around the edges of the chamber.

A man had been strung up on the haphazard concrete blockade, eviscerated. Primal symbols were etched upon every inch of exposed skin. his innards had been expertly removed and strung around the pedestal like a set of macabre curtains, yet he was still alive, whimpering faintly. Helpless to prevent his own eventual demise.

A body lay on the pedestal, naked, cold and dead. A young woman with grievous wounds, the worst of which weren't visible to the naked eye, nor to any man of science.

Kneeling on the ground before both of them was an old man in a spotless pre-war suit, his arms raised, his head bowed. His eyes were tightly shut in concentration, and under his breath he was muttering muted incantations. Whenever his profane mumblings reached a crescendo, the torches would flicker, and the shadows would grow a little denser until at last they had a weight and substance of their own.

The young man gave a sudden, curdling scream, pulling in vain at his bindings, his eyes bulging at some unseen horror. He gave one final, shaking gasp before the shadows took him from his world. The torches flickered and went out, filling the space with darkness.

In the pitch black, the old man slowly lowered his arms, keeping his eyes closed, listening for a heartbeat. Not his own.

He heard it. Faint at first, but growing stronger with each passing minute. Then came a shuddering gasp. Heavy breathing, and whimpering.

The old man smiled.

* * *

Sarah gasped, floundering for breath, trying to come to terms with her sudden return to consciousness. She remembered…darkness. And a voice…

The world was bathed in sudden bright light. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but when they did, Sarah's first sight was the dead face of a relatively young man, locked in a rictus of horror. She screamed and kicked wildly, her bare foot hitting him in the jaw, making his body swing from side to side; a grotesque pendulum.

She struggled more, desiring nothing more than distance. Her frantic movements propelled her off the stone pedestal and onto the brick floor, where she scampered, rat-like, to the corner of the small room, her feet slipping in blood. She watched the only other occupant as he calmly lit a second torch. He was an elderly gentleman with a wrinkled face and hard eyes.

"Welcome back, Sarah Lyons." He said.

"Wha…?" She stared hollowly at the crucified corpse. His innards had been strung up in a ceremonial pattern, the dripping blood forming a circle around the cold stone slab.

"I wouldn't feel too sorry for him." the old man said as she watched the streams of blood spatter into the moat.

"…Who are you?"

"My name is Obadiah Blackhall. My family has lived in this house for generations…"

"What happened? I was-"

"Dead." He told her simply, gesturing at the grisly scene. "And I brought you back. Traded one meaningless life for another."

"You did this?"

"He was a petty, bitter and vindictive person. The world is better off without him, and may I say that he died for a good cause. He sold out the Brotherhood's secrets to some very bad people."

"The Brotherhood…" She said hollowly. As her mind continued its confused migration back to its former abode, she gained unfamiliar flashes of a ruined city, giant hulking green enemies, and…a citadel. And another old man, with friendly eyes and a comforting voice. Her father… Owyn Lyons…

The stranger smiled. "Artemis poured his heart out as I cut into him. All of his deepest secrets and innermost desires. One would think he were in a confessional booth. He screamed and wept and died."

Sarah rose to her feet, ignoring her nakedness. She kept her back against the wall. "Get away from me!"

"I suggest you take a moment to calm yourself, Sarah." He urged. "Let yourself come back.

"Get away!" she screamed, more frantic than ever. "Or I'll fucking kill you!"

"Unwise, Sarah." The man told her. "In this place, I am your only ally." His smile widened. "I suggest you head upstairs. I was able to save a friend of yours. A Brotherhood scribe…Perhaps he can help…"

Sarah's jaw dropped. More memories flooded in. Scribes… civilian class…researcher… A second name, and a second face came forward: Reginald Rothchild.

Suddenly the dam broke. Whatever had been holding her memories hostage released them all, and she cried out as an entire lifetime overwhelmed her mind with jumbled images and confused memories. She slowly sank back to the floor clutching her head and trying desperately to untangle the knotted mess.

Obadiah Blackhall pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and began to read in calm, measured tones. "Brotherhood of Steel. Capital Wasteland. Enclave. Supermutants. Lone Wanderer. Project Purity…"

With each word uttered, Sarah's jumbled memories began to unravel, following the words and sorting themselves accordingly. What before had been nothing more than feelings and images began to coalesce into discernible events.

Blackhall continued, "…Citadel. Sawbones. Vertibird. Laser Rifle. Jason Howlett. Pitt. Ashur. Power Armour. Rivet City. Madison Li. Gunny. Nuka-Cola. G.E.C.K.. Elder-"

"Shut up. Enough." Sarah ordered as the last memories clicked into place. She steadied herself and glared at him, doing a quick self-examination. She was stark naked. Her wounds; the grazed headshot, burnt arm, and swollen knee were somewhat healed, though she knew she'd carry the scars forever. On her chest were a number of long, thin, stark-white scars, where she'd been stabbed by the Pint-Sized Slasher. Yet somehow the skin was smooth, as if they had never been open wounds in the first place. But she was alive, and in better shape than she had felt since first setting foot on the shore. She looked up at Blackhall. "Where did you get that list? How do you know that much about the Capital Wasteland?"

"I don't." the man said shortly. "Nor do I care to. But I asked Rothchild for a list of words that might help you remember, and he gave me this."

"Rothchild's dead." Sarah swallowed. "Everyone's dead."

"Really?" Blackhall laughed, sending a chill down her spine. "You saw the bodies, then?"

Her eyes flitted between his face and the only exit, behind him. The man stood aside and she darted past him, and feeling her bare feet slip on the cold stone.

The unfamiliar hallway was adorned with skeletons and ancient torches. She darted up the stairs and into a picturesque Victorian living area with faded wallpaper and large bay windows facing the swamp. She turned to her right and barreled through the first door she saw, racing down the hallway until she caught sight of a lone balding figure, standing at a bookshelf in an enormous, two-story library. She recognized the wrinkled face and worried eyes of Rothchild. The G.E.C.K. was sitting on the floor beside him. The man's nose was buried deep in a book, but he looked up when he heard her slide to a halt. He turned and smiled at her.

Relief surged through her, wiping clean her fear and confusion, and she ran forward, throwing her arms around him. The old man returned the gesture wholeheartedly.

"It's good to see you alive, Sarah!" he said, his voice somewhat muffled. "You must be freezing." He broke her grip and pulled off the outer layer of his scribe robe, putting it about her shoulders. She gathered it about herself. It was warm, heavy and comforting.

Her smile faded slightly. "Rothchild, we have to leave. This man-"

Rothchild shook his head and raised a silencing hand. "I am well aware of what he has done, Sarah. But he saved me. And he saved you."

Sarah backed away. Suddenly the friendly lines in Rothchild's face were ominous and foreboding. "Are you insane? Did you see what he did to Artemis?"

"At Jason's request." Rothchild told her.

Sarah's jaw dropped.

"So he says, and he can elaborate. But this is of vital importance, Sarah." Rothchild continued, sinking helplessly into a nearby chair. "Did the Lone Wanderer ever mention anything to you about a book?"

"A what?" She shrugged helplessly, thinking back over her time in The Pitt. "Yeah…maybe. I don't know."

"Perhaps he kept it under heavy guard?" Rothchild prompted, "or in a safe?"

"_How could you let him do that to Artemis_?"

Rothchild sighed. "Over the years working with your father, I've had to make many of the hard decisions for our chapter, Sarah. This was another one of them."

"Did you even see-"

The elderly scribe erupted form his chair in a sudden fit of anger, cowing her into silence. "You are Sarah Lyons! The _only_ child of the _only_ elder on the east coast! Every year your father grows weaker. Every day I can see him struggling a little more! Our survival depends on having someone to take his place! Artemis couldn't do that. End of story."

"But-"

"I have only been in this swamp for a few days, Sarah." Rothchild scolded severely. "But I've already learned that the choices here are very simple. Yes or no. Black or white. Do or die. I made the choice and it is mine to live with. Not yours. It's no wonder Jason was nearly feral when you met him in the north. He had stayed here for more than a month. If you really want to know why you're still here, I suggest you ask _him_ about Jason." He nodded over her shoulder. Sarah span around. The old man was standing at the library entrance, framed by the hallway light. He strode forward, limping slightly.

"You know Jason?" she asked cautiously.

"Yes." The old man answered, his voice echoing through the two-story room. "He was here several months ago. He took something of great value to me. A book."

A memory flashed through Sarah's scattered mind. A safe buried under a pile of trinkets, and that horrible mask. _Let me keep __some__ secrets, Sarah_…

She hesitated, feeling adrift, as if all the lifelines connecting her to her life in the Wasteland were severed. She wasn't sure of anything anymore. "Did he tell you to do that to Artemis?"

Blackhall moved forward into the light. "Not explicitly. But I don't think he'd mind. Just a little while ago he… contacted me. Told me that you were arriving, and told me that if I didn't keep you alive, he would burn the book, and destroy it utterly. He was very passionate. I would feel highly complimented if I were you."

Sarah glanced back at Rothchild, who shrugged helplessly. "Why would you save Rothchild though?"

"He can carry on a decent civil conversation." Blackhall explained, "I've had so few of them over the recent centuries."

"_Centuries…_" Sarah murmured, staring at her host's wrinkled face and sunken, beady eyes.

He smiled a black smile and said, "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. It would be best if you do not consider me a friend, Sarah. But for Jason Howlett you would have suffered the same fate as Artemis under my knife."

Sarah stared. "Why do you want the book?"

"I am this swamp's warden. I know of all its secrets, and its evils." He took a seat in a comfortable looking leather chair.

"Then maybe you can finally give me an answer." Sarah told him grimly. "_What the hell is wrong with this place_?"

"Quite simply? It is a rabid dog, off its leash." Blackhall explained. "The book was an thing of evil, and I committed evil deeds with it, yet those deeds were in the interests of self-preservation, and to keep this swamp in check. Have you ever heard the term Genius Loci?"

"No."

"Genus Loci is Latin for the Spirit of a Place." Blackhall explained, sighing wearily. "This land is alive. Sentient. Self-aware to a certain extent. And it dislikes visitors. It defiles and changes those who tread it's paths for too long. However it does not leave most visitors alive long enough for the process to begin."

Sarah stared, trying to fit the idea into what little available space was left in her mind. "Land can't be alive. Where's its brain?"

"It is both an individual entity, and a hivemind, made up of all the things living in it, yet separate from them."

"I come from the Capital Wasteland, and that place isn't alive." Sarah said, trying not to admit to herself that the old man's explanation fit, and tallied perfectly with her own observations.

"The Capital Wasteland does not lie upon one of reality's frayed seams." The man told her shortly. "The universe is vast, yet not infinite. What lies beyond is both. A series of matryoshka dolls, growing both smaller and larger in scale. Entities exist in all of them. And when one of the greater kind grows… restless…its effects are felt in all those realities below. Including ours."

"Ug-Qualtoth." Sarah said, guessing ahead.

Blackhall nodded. "Smart girl. Insects understand _our_ motivations and our place in their world as much as we understand Ug-Qualtoth. Yet its machinations have lent life to this place."

"That's what was…hunting me?" Sarah asked, shivering as she recalled the ghostly figure. Her last moments of life flashed before her eyes and she winced, feeling the echo of the knife's sting.

"No. I told you before, this land is a rabid dog, hungry and off its leash. Ug-Qualtoth gave it life. The thing hunting you was a byproduct of that process. Point Lookout is both a separate entity and a hivemind. The land itself was hunting you."

"Then why do I see the Pint-sized Slasher?" Sarah asked.

Blackhall smiled. "You could answer that question far better than I, Sarah Lyons. That is not what you saw, that is merely the shield your mind put up to defend itself. It wasn't like this before… I was able to keep things in check when I had the book. I could have prevented all of this from happening. But now that it is with Mister Howlett, the swamp is getting too strong. I need that book to prevent it from growing any stronger. And I need you to give it to me. It is the only reason you are alive. You have a debt to pay."

"If I escape, I'm not coming back here." Sarah told him.

"I am not asking you to come back here. " Blackhall told her, "I would ask no creature to willingly make this journey again. As the land would let you live the first time you walked upon it, I very much doubt it would accept a second. But when you get your hands on it, put it in the ocean. Or a river, perhaps. It will find its own way back to me." He sighed, sitting back, "It always has."

* * *

Sarah stared at the shredded recon armour which lay on the king-sized bed. Dried blood had stained most of the fabric. There were holes in the elbows and knees. And the chest- She winced, trying to think of something else. For some reason nothing came. Images and feelings from her previous life flickered by, but they were detached, as if being shown on a screen at a drive-in theatre. She thought of the Brotherhood of steel, and felt an echo of loyalty. Her father's face produced a frail, feeble kind of love. The sort one would hold for a favorite character in a novel, or pre-war movie. Sarah Lyons wondered who she was, and why the question didn't seem to matter to her at all anymore.

In the window outside the bedroom, she could look right into the heart of the swamp. Sarah gathered Rothchild's robe about herself to keep out a sudden chill. She circled around the side of the bed, past faded paintings and sagging bookshelves. She grabbed both curtains and pulled them shut, trying to give herself some semblance of privacy and security. None came. She felt just as exposed inside the now darkened room as she had in the swamp. Nothing could stop the Swamp from achieving its goals. Not Jason. Not Blackhall. Not Armour. Nor shelter. The pitifully thin paper walls wouldn't stop a yao guai cub. She tried to take solace in the fact that at least two things in the place did not want her dead, but the occultist's warning echoed in her mind: _But for Jason Howlett you would have suffered the same fate as Artemis under my knife…_

Someone knocked at the open door. "Sarah?"

She turned. Rothchild was standing there, framed by the ancient wood and the lit hallway. He said, "Are you alright?"

"No." She whispered. Her voice distant. It sounded alien to her. And her body felt…wrong. As if she were trying to break it in a new pair of combat boots. There was a wall there. A…distance, as if her body were a marionette, and she the puppeteer.

Rothchild moved into the room. He halted beside an unlit gas lamp and pulled out a book of matches He leaned down and carefully lit the lamp, bathing the room in a soft yellow glow. Then he turned back to her. "I suggest you get some rest. Blackhall-"

"What happened to everyone?" Sarah asked. "You're alive. Is everyone else dead?"

Rothchild sighed, shaking his head. He took a seat in a moldy armchair. "Night fell quickly after the three of you left. With it came the fog. And with the fog came the Swampfolk. They laid siege to the lighthouse. Artemis and Pek managed to hold them off for a little while, with our help."

"I met Pek." Said murmured. "I killed him. Or the Swampfolk did. He's dead now."

"So are all my scribes, if it's any consolation, Sarah. It was as if the entire swamp joined the fight." Rothchild told her. "There were Mirelurks and coyotes and people who…" he shuddered. "Let's just say I'll never eat another Punga fruit ever again."

"You don't know the half of it."

"And the fog itself was…" the scribe shrugged. "Look, to cut a long story short, it ended with Artemis and I locked in Calvert's inner sanctum with those swampfolk banging on the door. Then...they left us alone. Gave up. We found out later that Blackhall had driven them off. He found us and told us he was looking for you. He took us back here-" he gestured around the room "-to wait. And a few days later he and Artemis found your corpse on the beach with the G.E.C.K. beside it." He stared sullenly at the floor. "The rest you know."

"He's evil, Rothchild." She told him abruptly.

The old scribe chuckled. "Name something here that isn't. Including you and I. There is no such thing as a moral compass here." He stood and pulled her tattered uniform off the bed, then pulled down the top cover revealing pristine white sheets beneath. "You should get some sleep, Sarah. I think we're safe for the time being."

Sarah laughed, her left hand at her mouth, left elbow cupped in her right hand. "I doubt I'll ever sleep again."

"You should try regardless, Sarah." Rothchild urged.

She settled for staring into the gas lamp instead. "I was dead."

"I think it would be best not to dwell on that." The scribe told her.

She let out another quiet giggle. "I'll just put it out of my mind, shall I? Just set it aside and move on? Compartmentalize?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sarah stared at the steady yellow light. She blinked a couple of times to clear the purple spots which clouded her vision. "It's not right."

"What isn't?"

"When we're dead, we're dead." She told him. "That's what happens. This is…wrong. I shouldn't be here."

"If you wish to correct the situation, I suggest you travel back to the capital wasteland and give me back my book." Blackhall said, entering behind Rothchild. He was carrying a small teacup which rattled in its saucer. "After you're done that, you may put a bullet in your own skull at your own leisure. Right now, whatever you are, you belong to me."

"Do not speak to her that way!" Rothchild warned.

Blackhall's eyes narrowed. "She is necessary. You are not. You exist because I am feeling rather charitable. Do not make me change my mind." He turned to Sarah and set down the cup of tea on a nightstand. "Drink. Sleep. Tomorrow you will eat. Regain your strength, and then set out for the riverboat." He turned to leave and stopped. "You _will _wake up screaming in the middle of the night. That is a certainty."

"Nightmares?" Sarah asked hollowly.

Blackhall grinned. "Yes. Tonight, and most likely for every night for the rest of your life. There is a price to pay for cheating death, Miss Lyons. You didn't really think you could simply walk away, did you?"

* * *

**I've been waiting months to post certain sections of **_**this**_** particular chapter.**

**I'm expecting a fair amount of heat for this one, so I just want to say that Sarah Lyons was slated to die and be resurrected from the very moment I knew she was going to Point Lookout. Everything else that happened was leading up to this. This was the point. Much of her dialogue with Blackhall had been written before the purifier exploded. As I warned in the beginning of the story, I made some drastic changes to Point Lookout, and this was the most drastic of all. The Big One. **

**Yes, the black magic implied in the game actually exists in this version. Yes, it might seem like a cop out. But I don't care. And don't worry. It won't appear again, and it doesn't figure into the rest of the series, although Sarah's going to have troubles.**

**Jason's bargain happened all the way back in the end of chapter 7.**

**This entire segment of the series was an isolated section which allowed **_**me**_** to pay homage to the Horror genre and all its myriad branches, Lovecraft in particular, and to my personal favorite of all the Fallout DLC's. **

**In general I prefer the New Vegas ones, but Point Lookout got my imagination going like none of the others ever could. Dead Money is Point Lookout 2.0.**

**One thing to keep in mind is that all of Sarah's storyline takes place in the space of about four days, and in actuality it wraps up around the same time that Jason first confronts Jackrum in the Muddy Rudder. All the rest is travel time.**

**Anyway that's it for that one. Now a few wrap-up chapters and this story is finished. I got blasted in Modus Operandi for "rushing the ending", so I'm not going to make the same mistake here. But it's in sight now, and i'm excited.**


	24. Chapter 24

Aqua Vitae 24

"How's this look?" Pinkerton held up a mirror.

Jason stared at his old face. A few small yet significant changes had been made. His nose was just a little straighter, his brow and chin a little more pronounced. His hair, at least, was back to its natural blonde color. It was still an undefined mess, but that would change with time.

He watched his image sigh. "I look just like one of Three-Dog's motivational posters…"

"Of course you do." Pinkerton snapped irritably. "what the hell do you think I've been working off of? I have no pictures. Don't complain, boy. Back in my day, with a face like that, the ladies would be lining up all the way down Rivet City's flight deck."

Jason's frown deepened. He wondered how Sarah was doing, and whether or not his Faustian bargain had worked.

"Anyway if that's all, get out. I have work to do." Pinkerton grumbled.

* * *

Elder Lyons stared down at the glowing blue cylinder. "What is it?"

"A cure." Jason explained.

One of the interchangeable scribes leaned forward. "A cure for what, exactly?"

"The F.E.V. virus which creates supermutants. I don't know how it works, so I'm giving it to the Brotherhood for safe keeping.

"A cure for supermutant…ism?"

"So I've been told."

The Scribe stared eagerly down at the glowing blue vial. "Sir, permission to take this down to the labs?"

"Yes, yes. Go." Lyons waved him away. The cure was carefully placed back into its suitcase and removed from sight. The briefing room emptied, leaving the elder and the Wanderer staring at each other awkwardly.

"I've found the culprits and killed them." Jason said, "It will not happen again."

"Glad to hear it." Lyons said sadly, "I only wish all the others had as much success."

They both fell into silence, having arrived at the same thought.

"I haven't heard from her yet." Lyons said gently. His voice was so worried and frail that Jason felt moved to offer him reassurance.

"She should be alright. I made arrangements."

"Thank you."

"I want something understood from now on." Jason said, slipping into his Wanderer persona. "If you ever need to send someone outside the Capital Wasteland for any reason, consult with me first."

"We should not be forced to rely on-"

"Point Lookout is more dangerous than any of you know." Jason interrupted. "Sarah has some protection, but I would be very surprised if even half the expedition makes it back. Doubly so if they actually have the G.E.C.K. I never saw any signs of one, and I was there a lot longer than they are going to be. The entire place is hostile. There are mirelukrs in the water, feral ghouls and smugglers on the beaches… the swamp itself is full of mutated people who take far too many shots to kill. I've unloaded entire clips into them to no effect. Every moment you're there, you're being hunted by things that would give supermutant overlords pause. _I_ barely made it out when I went over there." He sighed. "You should have told me."

Elder Lyons took a deep breath, keeping his tone impressively calm and collected. "Believe it or not, the Wasteland existed long before you wandered out of that vault. My daughter and I have been here for nearly a quarter of a century holding this wasteland together, and I've had no acknowledgement of that fact from you. Nor anyone else of late. One would think we'd been standing by and watching the world go to waste while you save it against all odds."

Jason stared.

"Over the course of protecting this wasteland I've lost nearly four hundred good soldiers, the favor of the West-Coast Elders, and expended almost all our resources. My own chapter has split in two and we grow weaker by the day, yet all we've received in return is a constant litany of complaints, anger, and people wanting more. Always more. Even you."

The Wanderer swallowed and stared guilty at the surface of the table in front of him.

"Four years ago you walked out of the blue and demanded, without offering anything in return, that we devote all our resources to fighting a losing battle against an enemy worse than the supermutants, that we help fix the purifier,_ and_ that we distribute the water. Worthy goals, but as I said, this chapter was already crumbling and you paid that fact no heed. You gave us our instructions and wandered away."

"I can't do it all myself…"

"No, but you could at least offer us some assistance." Lyons replied. "I know that on your own, you've amassed an extraordinary amount of resources, some of which could be exceedingly helpful. And I know that my overburdened knights have not seen any of it. The wasteland considers you to be a hero, Jason Howlett. And Sarah has a very high opinion of you, but to me, you are selfish, hard-headed, thoughtless wildcard. You've done more good than harm, it's true. But I find you a burden, and I can't bring myself to like you." He sighed and added a final note, "And a few weeks ago, you stole my own daughter from me. Now I've apparently unknowingly sentenced her to death, only to find out too late, from _you_. Now you tell me that it's my fault, and that I should have told you everything… I'd like you to take a moment and imagine how I feel right now, Jason." Having finished speaking, he folded his hands on the table, awaiting the Wanderer's response. The Elder's face was filled with an intensely bitter expression.

Jason stared down at his one hands, trying to think of a response. He could hear the exhaustion, anger, bitterness, and disappointment in the Elder's voice, and felt his cheeks flush with shame. He had always held Owyn Lyons in the highest regard, on level with James Howlett, and the Brotherhood as his closest, most trusted allies. Finding out what they really thought was unpleasant, to say the least.

He nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry. I know my apology can't mean all that much."

"You're right."

Jason nodded, thinking hard. "Over the years I've been closed off at best, and unnecessarily confrontational at worst. In retrospect it hasn't really helped either of us, and I apologize."

Still the elder stayed silent.

"Alright…" Jason said, feeling rather awkward, "Let's start again, if you're willing…" He watched Owyn Lyons' resolute face and sighed. "Look, whatever you think of me, there's a supermutant out there named Brutus. I don't know where he is, but he's gathering his forces to march on the capital wasteland. Project Purity's sabotage was a distraction, and the people who planned it were also planning to double cross him using the very cure I gave to you. They planned to have the Talon Company take control of the Wasteland."

Lyons sat back, staring hard at Jason, and taking his time in processing the new information. Eventually he opened his mouth and said, "You learned this all while investigating the sabotage?"

"Most of it. Burke was the saboteur. He had some help from the Talon Company and another man named Daniel Littlehorn…" Jason told him everything. He told him of the Regulators, and being recruited, of Sergeant Jackrum and the assault on the Capitol building, of Burke and the PVP cure, of his disguise and being shot in the head, and of Jackrum's honor and the battle of the scrapyard. By the end of it, Elder Lyons was looking oddly cheerful, despite the news. He finally knew where he stood, and could make an informed decision.

He said, "You believe this 'Jackrum' can be trusted?"

"He turned down several hundred thousand caps to rescue me at the risk of alienating his entire faction and whoever sent Burke." Jason answered, "Look, you're right, I do have plenty of weapons, ammo, and armour hidden in various cahces throughout the wasteland. The four big ones are in Meresti train station near Arefu, Rivet City, Canterbury Commons, and Megaton. It would be a good idea to send word to those settlements to start arming. I don't know how big this mutant attack is going to be, but when I said hundreds, Burke started laughing."

"I agree."

"You guys need an upgrade as well." The Wanderer continued, "I have T-51B power armour at my house in Megaton, and lots of enclave gear. Also I know where you can get an enormous amount of energy weapons more powerful than anything you currently have."

"And you shared none of it before because…?"

Jason smiled ruefully, "I've learned a lot about Allies recently. You've been very patient with me over the years. You've helped out and done a lot more than I ever had any right to ask. I guess it never really occurred to me that that was a two way street. Also, the technology I'm giving you is as dangerous in the wrong hands as Liberty Prime and the Purifier. It's best if its origins are kept secret among as few people as possible. These are special circumstances and we have to pull out all the stops."

Lyons nodded. "Well…in the interests of our new alliance, there's a piece of information I have which I should probably share with you…"

"And what is that?"

* * *

Jason stared down at the headstone. Beside him, Caleb the Mason shifted uncomfortably. On his other side, Elder Owyn Lyons waited with infinite patience. The three of them had been standing before it for over half an hour. Jason approved of the location: under a tree across the tidal basin from Project Purity. He felt that his father would have appreciated the view. It had become a peaceful little spot where he himself had often sat down to think things over.

"I could put his name up top." The Mason offered, trying to get the ball rolling. "Maybe a short little thing underneath: Much Loved. Or something…"

"Revelation twenty-one six." Jason said, "I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the waters of life freely."

Caleb laughed. "I can't fit all that on a headstone. Not on one that small. Not with the tools I have."

"Find a way." The Wanderer ordered coldly.

"Right." Caleb laughed. "You find a way to fly us to the moon, and after I've been there and back, I'll carve all that onto the headstone."

"Deal." Jason said immediately, sticking out his hand. Caleb took a few steps backwards, staring down at the proffered limb as if it might explode.

"You…" he began, staring at Jason's grin.

"Get chiseling." Jason told him.

"Look, I can't fit all that on there!" the Mason tried to explain, "This rock is brittle, and with lettering that small…"

"Aqua Vitae." Owyn said, staring intently at the gravestone. Jason turned.

"Aqua Vitae." The Elder repeated. "It's Latin. The Waters of life."

Jason stared down at the headstone, his brow furrowed in quiet thought.

"I could fit that." Caleb told them.

The two older men waited for Jason's approval. Eventually the Lone Wanderer nodded. "Do it."

* * *

Sarah was shaken to wakefulness by Rothchild. The elderly scribe was hovering over her, carrying a small gas lamp, and wearing a worried expression. He sat on the edge of her bed, sinking into the thick sheets. She rubbed her eyes, feeling sleep fade. Off in the distance came the ringing of the buoy bells, yet the swamp outside her window was still concealed in darkness.

As she recovered, she became aware that her sheets were sodden with sweat, and that despite the thick duvet, her body was still wracked with chills. "What's going on."

"You were screaming." He said, "loud enough to wake me up in the next room."

Sarah stared, trying to remember. "Screaming?" she checked the old grandfather clock on the wall. It had been four hours since she had first crawled, exhausted, into the unfamiliar bed and shut her eyes. Yet she felt no better for the rest. She was just as exhausted as she had been the day before. There was no sense of recovery or recuperation.

"There were words." Rothchild told her. "You were speaking. But not in any language I've ever heard."

Sarah shifted position and tried to remember the dream, whatever it had been. Yet all she could recall was a vague sense of darkness and voices. She stared at the opposite wall. "Where is _he_?"

Blackhall was reading, down in his library. A dusty, ancient tome lay open on his knees. As he flipped through the pages Sarah caught sight of ancient symbols and sketched carvings of obelisks and strange cephalopod creatures the likes of which she hoped never to encounter. She found herself wondering if the strange hermit ever slept at all. She pulled up a chair and sat opposite him, waiting patiently. When he appeared to arrive at an appropriate stopping point in his book, he marked it with his finger and snapped it shut. Then he looked up at her with eyebrows raised.

"Rothchild woke me up." She said, "Apparently I was screaming in my sleep."

"I _did_ warn you…"

"No, I know. I know that." Sarah licked her lips, "What's bothering me is that he says I was talking, and I can't even remember the dream, really."

"And?"

"Well what should I do?" She asked.

"Be thankful." He said, in tones which told her that their candle-lit conversation had ended. He resumed his reading. Sarah watched him for a moment, then reached over and shut the book, not even giving him a chance to mark his page. He stared at the thick, leather-bound cover, and then looked up at her again. This time his expression was one of annoyance and impatience.

"Explain what you did to me." She ordered.

"No." He replied.

"Why not?"

"It is best not to inquire to deeply into these things, Sarah." He told her, "There are some very dangerous things out there. It is best to tread lightly, lest you attract attention. And believe me, ignorance is bliss."

"I need answers." Sarah replied. "At least some partial ones. All my life I've watched my friends die. I've watched them burn, melt, get shot, crushed. Stabbed…they've died from infections and… practically everything I can think of I've seen happen to at least one of my comrades. I've lived all my life figuring that at one time or another, it would be my turn." She shook her head. "I feel like I've been cheated, somehow."

"Death was cheated." Blackhall corrected, "Fate was cheated. You were destined to die, Sarah Lyons. When? I don't know. How? I don't know. Yet it was not meant to happen here at Point Lookout, and not at the…hands…of that creature. You were killed by something which should not have existed in any case, and did not belong here. Therefore your death was also not meant to happen. All of your friends, the ones killed through warfare and disease, died when they were meant to. You were not. That gave me the elbow room needed to bring you back. I cannot bring your friends back. They are dead and gone. That is all the explanation you are ever going to receive. Go to sleep, Sarah Lyons."

She ignored the order. "What did Jason see when he was out here? How much did he do?"

"He did not see as much as you." Blackhall replied. "I would venture that much of what has happened to you is his fault. At the time of his visit, Point Lookout was, while intensely hostile, a rather calm place, and he wandered it through all of it. He met a woefully foolish woman who convinced him to steal the book and take it back with him. Marcella was her name. a Christian missionary who absolutely refused to accept the utter irrelevance of her moral code and religious beliefs."

"Lots of people _do_ believe…" Sarah muttered.

Blackhall laughed. "My dear woman, the idea that any higher power, would be the least bit interested in us as a species, or our individual lives is flawed at the most basic level, and unbelievably narcissistic. When you can explore in its entirety, the awesome power of a blackhole or supernova, or make entire galaxies spin like children's toys, why bother with a bunch of messy overgrown apes who vomit spectacularly when they imbibe too much alcohol? Outside of our atmosphere, almost every inch of this vast universe is completely deadly to us. It is either too hot, or too cold. Lacking in atmosphere or possessing the wrong type. The gravity is either too strong, or too weak. The light too bright, or too dim. Not to mention a distinct lack of food. We cannot survive in it. If this entity cared, he would have made it a much friendly place. Life as we know it is a precious anomaly, and the Benevolent God an entirely human creation."

"I suppose I never thought of it like that." Sarah said, suddenly feeling very small.

"Go to bed, Miss Lyons. You've a long day tomorrow."

He opened his ancient book, found the correct page, and resumed his reading. Sarah stared at him for a long time, then slowly rose and headed for the library's double doors.

"On a side note," Blackhall called out, "there is a whispering obelisk in the basement of the Dunwich office building in the capital wasteland. I should avoid it at all costs if I were you. Else the aforementioned entities will be alerted, and for the sake of this precious blue-green orb, _you do not want that._"

* * *

The following morning found Sarah sitting across from Rothchild, digging in to a large bowl of baked beans with some mirelurk meat mixed in. The creatures had a strange, salty taste to them, yet she was too hungry to bother complaining.

Blackhall was sitting at the far end of the table. He had made no mention of their nocturnal discussion, and seemed rather jovial as he gave his instructions. "As soon as you exit the front door of this house, the Swamp will recognize its error, and move to correct it. By my count, you will have about seven minutes before it musters its resources. I should use that time to get to the beach, and move for the ferry." He produced an ancient shotgun with a half-full box of shells. "This was my Father's fishing aid. It will not stop what hunts you, but it may slow it down for a few seconds. Use the ammunition wisely, for there isn't much. And don't forget my book."

Sarah and Rothchild were ushered out the door with an anticlimactic shove. They stood in the doorway for just a moment, watching swamp, and listening to the distant crash of water on the shoreline.

Sarah gathered herself together, clutched the G.E.C.K. tightly and set off at a jogging pace, with Rothchild lagging behind somewhat. They had decided to give him the shotgun, feeling that if trouble came, he would stay and take it. Sarah had at first fought against the idea, but caved when she was reminded that their mission had always been to get the G.E.C.K. back to the capital wasteland.

They headed straight for the sandy shore and set off towards the rising sun. As they traveled, Sarah began to pick up a slight tremor in the sand. The distant silence of the swamp grew more and more ominous with each passing moment, and she felt that hostile waters were was building up behind a dam. Instead of the growing dread, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of another.

They rounded the southern edge of a bramble-covered dune and Sarah caught sight of the boardwalk, and the Duchess Gambit. She moved towards it, speeding up even as she passed a horribly familiar red stain which was slightly too high for the tide to ever wash away.

"Sarah!" Rothchild cried out in alarm. She turned back. Standing the sand dune, silhouetted against the blue cloudless morning sky, was the enormous swamp-man who had dragged her out of the water the night she'd snuck into the swamp. He hefted an enormous axe and charged down the dune at high speed with an odd limping gait.

"Ya don't 'scape Point Lookout!" he screamed.

Sarah sped up, sprinting for the boardwalk. The thing leapt clear over Rothchild's head, ignoring the Scribe completely in its determination to kill her. She could hear it catching up, reaching for her trailing hair.

Rothchild's shotgun boomed and the thing cried out, far closer than she had expected. She reached the dock at the other end of which sat the Duchess Gambit. With a roar, the thing leapt, clearing the dirty water and landing on the dock, blocking her path to safety. She began to back up, making her way into the maze of prewar buildings. The thing strode forward in pursuit.

Sarah turned several corners and slid to a halt, hitting a dead end. Before her rose the vast bulk of the Ferris wheel. She turned, watching the bulky denizen march across the boardwalk towards her. She could have climbed the ferris wheel, or searched for a weapon. She could have done a dozen things to stave off death, but she didn't. She was content, oddly enough, with standing still and watching the creature's progress. She hadn't expected to even make it to the beach, and Point Lookout had dashed her hopes against the rocks so many times that she felt numb. She just wanted it to end, one way or another.

The Tracker grinned a childish grin, staring down at her through his one good eye. He hefted his rusted axe, preparing for the final charge.

A sniper shot broke the dead silence, and a blood-spattered hole appeared in the side of the creature's head. He turned, roaring, to confront the new threat: a man, standing on the wavy crenellations of the nearest building.

Sarah stared as Knight-Captain Irving Gallows pumped another round into the chamber and fired at the Tracker, hitting it in the chest. It staggered backwards, but recovered. His helmet was missing entirely, as were major sections of his armour, the hydraulics exposed to the open air. What parts were left, were covered in dents and scratches. His face had been horribly cut, with a large gash leading down from his left temple to his chin, yet he was clearly alive, and his eyes showed nothing but steadfast determination to remain that way. A lever-action rifle had been slung across his back, and at his waist was a strange-looking canister, and a .38 pistol, both attached with twine. Only the gods knew where he'd acquired them. He leapt off the roof and landed on the boardwalk, cracking the dried wooden planks. Point Lookout had not broken him.

The tracker charged at him, axe held aloft, the heavy impact of its feet making the wooden boardwalk shake. At the speed it was charging, Sarah thought for sure it would hit him, but Gallows dodged at the last second, and the creature slammed into the wall, leaving a giant hole in the crusty plaster. The Knight-Captain pulled out the canister and tossed it at the tracker, which was still struggling to untangle itself from the wall. Then he pulled out his pistol and shot it. A giant fireball erupted from the broken container, engulfing the creature, and tossing Sarah backwards against the railing.

The charred, flaming yokel tore itself free and charged again, leaping clear over Sarah's inert form and chasing the Spec. Ops. soldier across the small plaza. He reached the other end and turned, firing his lever-action rifle from the hip, pumping it rapidly, making chunks fly from the swamp-man's bulky form, and slowing it down. He braced himself as it reached him, and Sarah winced as the two combatants met. Gallows had thrown all his weight into a shoulder tackle, and he hit the creature in the stomach, and both of them rolled backwards, sliding along the not ruined boardwalk until they came to rest at the center of the plaza, not ten feet from Sarah.

The Brotherhood knight had landed on top, and he was pounding the inbred's face in with his power-armoured fists, the hydraulics augmenting his strength. This had next to no effect on the bleeding creature, who lifted the soldier up with one hand and tossed him away like a ragdoll.

Gallows hit the ground four feet away and rolled. He came up and retrieved the creature's axe, which it had dropped with his first sniper shot. They circled, sizing eachother up. The beast struck, and Gallows dodged. It swung out with the other fist, and he ducked around it, hitting it's knee with the top of the axe. The thing stepped backwards and eyed him cautiously.

"This here's ma home!" it declared, it's voice warbling. "Y'aint welcome heyar! Ya'on't survive! I'll kill ya!" It brought both hands together and struck downwards, attempting to hammer him into the earth. He sidestepped the blow and swung the axe in an elegant downward arc, hitting the soft flesh at the back of its knee, severing its lower leg completely. The swamp-man screamed in pain and flopped to the wooden planks.

"Adapt." Gallows intone, reciting the mantra which all Spec. ops. Brotherhood soldiers had been taught. The thing made to rise, but it was knocked down by the axe, which was buried in its back.

"Survive."

The axe landed again, its impact shaking the dying creature.

"Thrive."

It landed a third time, and the swamp-man lay inert, coughing his last abhorrent breaths.

With one final scream bursting with primal rage, Gallows swung the axe over his head and down. A crack echoed across the plaza as it split the tracker's head neatly down the middle, cleaving it to the base of the neck. The head of the axe broke off, leaving the crumbling piece of wood in the soldier's hand.

He took a step backwards, panting with relief. He glanced down at the brown stick and tossed it aside. Sarah slowly rose to her feet. She retrieved the G.E.C.K. and checked that it was alright, then walked over to him, moving with extreme caution. "Gallows?"

He turned and stared blankly at the device cradled in her arms.

"The G.E.C.K.?"

She nodded.

"Let's go home."

"Sarah?" Rothchild called out, limping up the boardwalk towards them, still toting his shotgun. He slowed as he recognized her companion. "Gallows? How are you still alive?"

"We have the G.E.C.K. let's go home." The soldier said, making their priorities clear. Everything could be explained later.

* * *

The three-man group slowed as it neared the dock. Sarah felt her newfound hopes fade as she saw the silent, still figure of the Pint-Sized Slasher, standing sentinel on the dock between her small band of survivors, and the safety of the Duchess Gambit.

Her band walked slowly down the dock and stopped, seven paces away from the small figure with the bulbous head. It raised its blood red knife and pointed at Sarah. _I killed you._

"I'm sorry." She said. "Just let me go! I won't come back I swear!"

_You are mine! You will not escape!_

Sarah opened her mouth, but was cut off by Irving Gallows, "How would you like to play a game?"

The thing's head tilted, visibly intrigued.

"Hide and seek." Gallows said, walking forwards.

_You run. I'll start counting!_ The thing ordered.

Gallows shook his head and crouched fearlessly in front of the thing, bringing his eyes down to its level. Sarah grimaced as he prodded it in the chest, "No, _You _hide. _I _seek."

The thing quivered in devilish excitement, then disappeared in a gust of wind.

"It'll kill you." Sarah said plaintively. "You don't know what you're dealing with!"

Gallows stood and turned towards them, "Get the G.E.C.K. back, fix the purifier."

"Gallows…" Sarah said again.

"Your name will live on in the Brotherhood's memory!" Rothchild promised.

Gallows shook his head, "Just add me to the MIA list."

Rothchild grabbed Sarah by the arm and dragged her towards the waiting boat, the G.E.C.K. cradled safely in his arms.

* * *

Irving Gallows watched the Duchess Gambit slowly churn away, it's last two passengers watching him from the railing.

Gallows was a Brotherhood Special Operations Soldier. A scout. A recon master, and an expert at surviving alone in hostile environments. He'd lived for months in the mutant-infested D.C. ruins without aid. If there was one person aside from The Lone Wanderer who was well-enough equipped to survive Point Lookout, it was Irving Gallows. Hunting was his life. His purpose. This place would a playground for him. The ultimate survival challenge. He only hoped that he was up to it.

He tucked his combat knife in a sheath on his leg, and switched off his sniper rifle's safety. Then he began to shout at the land, the skeletal trees, the dark swamps, and the eternal mist of Point Lookout,

"One Mississippi,

Two Mississippi,

Three Mississippi,

Four Mississippi,

Five Mississippi,

Six Mississippi,

Seven Mississippi,

Eight Mississippi,

Nine Mississippi,

Ten Mississippi.

Ready or not_, here I come!_"

* * *

**Ladies and Gentlemen, Point Lookout is done! Cue the sudden sigh of relief.**

**About Gallows, I doubt anyone really thought he had died. I've got to stop doing that, but it's so much fun! Anyway h****is final scene was decided and written around the time I posted the chapter where Jason first ran into Jackrum at the anchorage memorial. I'm also officially labeling Operation Sandstorm by Two Steps From Hell as Gallows' theme song.**

**About Sarah and Blackhall's nighttime discussion, that should not be construed as an attack against anyone who believes. The opinions stated simply fit his character and the general mood of cosmic horror/uncertainty/insignificance which I'm trying to put across here. I have no problem with those of you who believe in god. It's your business, and that's the end of the story.**

**Anyway that's all for now. I took a read through and I'm pretty sure I covered all my bases, but if you spot something, point it out for me please.**

**until next time, CC out.**


	25. Chapter 25

Aqua Vitae 25

Sarah was off the ferry before it had docked. She leapt into the shallow water of the bay and waded ashore, collapsing spread-eagled on the sun-bleached sand. Her eyes were shut tightly; she wanted to savor every detail, to remember the moment when she was finally free of the place.

Rothchild couldn't blame her. He watched, bleary-eyed from the deck of the Duchess Gambit as she jumped ship, heading for home. He'd spent the last few weeks cooped up with the woman, waking up every night to hear her screaming, and watching every day as she seemed to shrink form the world. She psent most of her time in the cabin, leaving the deck for Rothchild and the ferry's boisterous captain, Nadine. Though he'd never say it out loud, he was privately glad to finally get some distance from both of them. The captain had been cheerful enough, if unkind.

"What did I tell you?" she had said as they had paddled away from the Point Lookout docks, watching Gallows' tiny figure recede into the distance, "Only two or three in ten ever make it back."

As he turned to his right and stared across the bay at Project Purity, and the distant bulk of Rivet City, Rothchild wished he'd listened. As he had so many times on the trip back, he wondered how they could have done things differently, and decided that gathering more intel before they had set out would have been invaluable.

The boat docked with hardly a whisper, Nadine bringing the gap in the railing even with the wooden quay. Sarah was waiting there for them. Rothchild retrieved the G.E.C.K. from the cabin footlocker, and made to step off the boat. He was very much surprised when the boat captain pulled him back.

"I don't think so." She said, "You aren't going anywhere till I get my money. Neither is your doohickey." She looked at Sarah. "Sorry about this, but business is business…"

"Business…" Sarah murmured, stared at her.

There was a moment of tense silence.

Sarah held out her hand. "Someone will be down here with you money within two hours. Thank you for taking us both ways, Nadine."

Nadine hesitated, uncertain as to what the blond woman's intentions were. Eventually she decided that the Brotherhood were trustworthy enough, and took it. "My pleasure."

Sarah pulled forward, kneeing the redhead in the stomach. She grabbed the woman by the hair and drove her face into the railing, breaking her nose.

"_What the hell are you doing_?" Rothchild cried in horror, but the blonde young woman wasn't listening. Leaving Nadine lying on the deck, she shouldered open the door to the engine room. She disappeared inside and came out a few seconds later brandishing a tire iron.

"What da fug!" Nadine said, clutching her nose. She reached down to her waist for her pistol. "You bit-"

She was cut off in mid-sentence. With a metallic crunch, Sarah's first swing took out most of the red-head's teeth and sizeable chunks out of both her cheeks. Her second swing shattered the woman's collarbone. The third buried the tire-iron deep into the woman's skull, killing her.

Sarah pulled it out, panting heavily, and wiping her hands off on her tattered recon armour. She turned to Rothchild who backed away, holding up the G.E.C.K. as a shield.

"What the hell did you do?" he demanded wildly. "You _killed_ her!"

Sarah tossed the bloody weapon into the Potomac and leaned against the railing, staring out at Project Purity with her now familiar vacant gaze. She said, "So what? People die all the time. I'll send the Pride down later to burn the boat…"

"Burn… what? Why?"

"No one is going back there, Rothchild!" She yelled in a sudden fit of fury, "Not now! Not ever! No one else is going to go through what I suffered. No one."

"What about Gallows?"

"There will be no rescue mission." Sarah said hollowly. "He made his choice. And if I ever find a way, I will burn that entire stretch of coastline clean off the map!"

Rothchild tried to avoid looking down at Nadine's corpse, but he found it tough.

"let's get back to the Citadel" Sarah said. "I have a few choice words for Jason. And my father."

* * *

Paladins Tristan, Glade, and Gunney were gathered at the Brotherhood's shooting range, accompanied by several senior knights as well as Dusk and Kodiak. Vargas, still recovering from his grievous injuries received during the Pride's stay in the Library, was seated in a chair nearby, watching the proceedings. Elder Owyn Lyons was beside him. Aside from them, the courtyard had been emptied at the Wanderer's instructions; he didn't want any accidents.

A table had been set up beside him with a set of strange looking weapons lying on it and several small glowing cylinders. He picked up the first weapon: a short stick with a heavy and elegant lattice globe at one end. He flicked a switch at the bottom and a bright light ignited at the center of the globe, sending beams of blue light through the cracks, and lances of electrical energy arcing around the lattice.

"This is a Shock Baton." He announced, waving it from side to side. It sizzled through the air, leaving the smell of ozone behind. "Not very stealthy, but it does a lot of damage, and I can tell you from personal experience that it causes a lot of pain. Not deadly, but debilitating."

He switched it off and passed it to the nearest Brotherhood knight. It was handed through the crowd, a few members giving it an experimental swing. After they'd had their time, he laid it back on the table carefully and picked up the next object: a vaguely pistol-shaped device, with the grip connecting two complicated cylindrical metal prongs together, mounted one below the other on a strange metallic assembly which glowed in certain places. The entire apparatus had a bulky, unwieldy feel to it, and it resembled nothing the soldiers had ever seen before.

"An Atomizer." The Wanderer told them. He took careful aim downrange at the straw dummy and fired. A small pulsating green orb zipped down the range at high speed, leaving a white blur behind it, and burning a hole through the dummy's head, scorching the concrete brick wall beyond. "Twenty shots until you have to reload." He said, tilting it on its side. He pulled a small glowing cylinder from it., identical to the ones on the table. "These are your clips. Batteries. Energy cells. Power modules…whatever you want to call them. Twenty shots per cylinder."

He motion Glade forward and handed it to him. "Try it."

The Paladin grasped the weapon carefully, testing its weight. The spectators waited with baited breath. He took careful aim and hit the target dead center, right between its eyes. The crowd broke into applause.

"It's a bit like firing a laser pistol." He said thoughtfully, "A little heavier, but not enough to make a huge difference. Where did you get this stuff?"

"First things first." Jason replied firmly. He took back the Atomizer and laid it on the table, picking up the next item: a strange-looking rifle with a compressed stock and ridiculously thin barrel ending in a miniature satellite dish. The mid-section was comprised of an awkwardly-shaped assembly, the top of which glowed bright blue.

"This is the Disintegrator" Jason told them, hefting the weapon. "It's horribly balanced, hard to grip, and has no real sight arrangement at all."

"Well… I'm sold." Kodiak said. The spectators sniggered.

"The advantage," Jason continued, ignoring them, "Is that you have one hundred shots before you reload."

Their smiles disappeared.

"It appears to draw on the power modules remotely." Jason said, holding it up for examination. "There is no magazine to be loaded. No battery to replace. No power cell to recharge. You prompt it to recharge by firmly smacking the glowing bit on the top." He did so, and the weapon hummed in response. He said, "Furthermore, once you get a feel for it, it is one of the most accurate things in your arsenal." He pulled Dusk forward and had her fire a few shots at the already damaged dummy. It took her about six to gain a feel for the weapon, but afterwards she was able to hit the dummy's pulverized head nine times out of ten. The small group cycled through the weapon, trying it on their own time, and looking considerably more impressed than they had started out.

"I've seen a lot of energy weapons during my time." Glade told him, pulling him aside, "But I've never seen anything like these. Where did you get them?"

"You'll find out yourself soon enough." Jason replied grimly. "You guys are going with me up north to collect hundreds of them."

"North?"

The Wanderer nodded. The crowd fell silent as he once again approached the table. The final weapon was enormous, looking more like a minigun than anything else, except that in place of the cluster of barrels, the device had a series of concentric plates growing smaller in size until they ended in a conical nozzle. A few knights backed away slightly.

"This… is the Drone Cannon." He hefted the weapon and took fifteen paces backwards, judging the distance. The crowd backed away as well, not wanting to be caught in whatever hell he was about to unleash. He widened his stance, steadying himself, and set the weapon off. Static crackled along the length of the conical front end, and a strange green light flashed between the cylinders. With a strangely static noise, the weapon emitted an orb of glowing green energy about the size of a basketball. It flew in a neat arc, bounced once off the sandy ground, and slammed into the dummy's chest. Then it exploded, filling the courtyard with bright green light. Everyone except Jason shielded their eyes. When they looked again, the dummy was gone. Vaporized, as was the barrier behind it, both dummies on either side, and much of the ground under it. A few plumes of smoke rose from the crater.

"Be very careful with this one." Jason told the silent watchers. "The balls bounce and explode after about three seconds. You have about four hundred shots before you run out. There is no way to reload or recharge it." He slid the atomizer into a pocket, slung the disintegrator over his shoulder and picked up the drone cannon. "I'm not going to let you play with it out here. There's too much risk of something going wrong."

"I'm glad to hear you have so much faith in us." Glade said.

The Wanderer turned to him and regarded him with a dry look. "Get everyone into the briefing room and I'll meet you there. This stuff is going into your armory and staying there until we're back from our trip." He headed for the nearest doorway.

Glade sidled up to Elder Lyons. "Looks impressive, Sir."

"Yes it does." Lyons replied.

"Where did he get it? I've never seen anything like it."

"Your guess is as good as mine, Paladin."

* * *

Jason stood in the center of the briefing room. At the far end was a map of the capital wasteland, with several locations marked on it. All of the knights who had attended his morning demonstration were gathered there as well as several scouts, and a few scribes, headed by Bigsley.

"Our target location is in the north." Jason told them, "Near the Greener Pastures disposal site." He checked his pipboy and pointed at the map. "right about here."

"That's hostile territory." Bigsley said.

"You'll be traveling with me, and the spoils will be worth it." The Wanderer replied. "You'll all be carrying sandbags, supplies, and some captured Enclave fortifications. What I'm giving you is valuable enough that as soon as you start using it, that location is going to be raided by everyone from simple wasters to supermutants to enclave personnel. We need to hold them off long enough to get what we want. Hopefully we can make it in two or three trips."

"Even if we manage to hold off any raiders," Glade said, "We'll still be vulnerable while traveling."

"Wrong." The Wanderer replied. "You'll be traveling with _me_. I'll be escorting all caravans to and from the retrieval site."

This prompted a look of relief from the scribes. Indeed the only one who seemed at all unhappy with it was Dusk, who did her best to keep her opinions quiet.

"We'll also need to send scouts to pick up Enclave armour from my Megaton and Rivet City stashes. I have plenty of armour, both regular and Hellfire. More than enough to outfit most of your knights."

"We'll be wearing Enclave power armour?" Dusk asked.

"They'd need a paint job." Glade added thoughtfully.

"All that crap is up to you." Jason said. "I'm just giving you the equipment." He walked up to an empty desk and pulled out a stack of paper. "I've written the stash locations on here along with relevant information." He shrugged. "Passwords and trap locations and such. The one in the bow of Rivet City is guarded by Mirelurks, so bring the necessary weapons." He handed the papers around the room. "I don't much care who retrieves it, so long as it gets back to the citadel intact."

He stood back and gave them all a moment to look over the papers. After he judged that they had had their fill, he cleared his throat to get their attention. He began to pace around the room., looking each man in the eye. "I want something understood: If I find out that this equipment is being sold, traded, or given to anyone who isn't a member of the Brotherhood of Steel, I will find you and crucify you." His steel-eyed gaze lingered on the suddenly frightened scribes. Bigsley, in particular. "If any of you tell our enemies, be they raiders, Enclave, Supermutants, or anyone else, I will find you, and I will skin you. Slowly. With a notched, rusty, and flaming lawnmower blade."

"I would appreciate it if you did not threaten my people, Mister Howlett." Lyons intervened. "Every man here is honorable."

"You do have a leak, Sir." Jason replied. "My cover got blown while I was investigating the purifier, and my 'employer' mentioned a member of the Brotherhood as being the Culprit. Until I know who, I _will _threaten, and I will carry through on any threats I make."

"It's in our best interests to make sure this stuff gets back to us intact." Glade said helpfully, diffusing things before they went any further. "I don't think anyone here can deny that. And we appreciate that you're sharing your resources with us."

The Wanderer nodded.

A scribe knocked at the door. "Sir, I have a message for Elder Lyons."

Jason glared at the scribe as he hurried across the floor and whispered in Lyon's ear. The Elder's eyes widened as he heard the message, and he stood. "Ladies and Gentlemen, This briefing will resume later. My daughter has returned from her errand."

Jason stared at him in shock, and he gave the Wanderer a pleading look. _Give me a few minutes first…_

Jason nodded and stepped aside to let him leave. The Pride followed, leaving the Lone Wanderer standing in the briefing room exchanging awkward glances with the scribes.

* * *

Glade followed just behind Elder Lyons as he walked into the Lyon's Den.

Sarah was sitting on her rickety mattress, staring blankly into space. She was wearing nothing but a shredded set of recon armour. The knees and lower legs were gone completely, as were the sleeves. The chest area had been torn and shredded into irregular strands, and almost every inch of the entire outfit was stained with blood. Her right shoulder had been badly burned, and wounds of all sorts were scattered all across her body, some grievous, some nothing more than scrapes or bruises. Her eyes were sunken and shadowed, creased by stress, and somehow dead. Her cheeks were hollowed and skeletal, as if she'd been starved for weeks. Her skin, which had been pale to begin with, was a ghostly white, and she was far thinner than any of them remembered. She seemed to consist solely of skin and bone. Something else was amiss, though. Something worse. She was diminished somehow. A stranger to them all. Even to her own father, who was fighting to find his voice.

The Pride watched as he crouched beside her and moved in to wrap his comforting arms around her. She recoiled, pushing him away. "Please don't." she said quietly. Using her fingers, she drew a careful circle on the lumpy mattress, creating an artificial barrier between herself and the rest of the world. "This is my space. You're all on the outside, and I'm on the inside, okay? I'm just not... not ready yet."

Glade moved further into the room. The Pride followed him and took seats on the beds around her, keeping a respectful distance. He noticed the small crowd of watching knights clustered by the door, and nodded at Kodiak, who rose and closed it carefully.

They waited for her, watching as she stared into space. There was something sinister in her gaze, as if she were not the only thing using her eyes to see.

Over his years of service, Glade had seen all manner of PTSD, and mental breakdowns. The ones who were scared, the ones who were tired, and the ones who just broke. But he'd never seen a look quite as uniquely haunting as Sarah's.

"Sarah?" Kodiak asked. She didn't respond.

"Where is Colvin?" Dusk said, voicing the question which had been bobbing in the back of Glade's mind. "Where is Gallows?" The Pride always unpacked together. They always decompressed together. Colvin and Gallows should have been at their bunks, stripping out of their stinky armour and prepping for debrief. Yet he saw only Sarah. There was only one conclusion to be drawn, but he had to hear it from her before he could accept it.

She began to speak, her voice raw and lackluster. "Knight-Captain Colvin, Killed in Action. Knight Artemis, Killed in action..." As she sounded out the death toll, a silence settled over the room. All four spectators stared at her in shock, taking in the tattered, blood-stained remains of her uniform.

She continued, ignoring the Pride, staring only at her father. "Knight Taylor, Killed in action through friendly fire. Knight Pek, killed in action. Scribe Vallincourt, killed in action-" she took a breath, "-Knight-Captain Gallows, Missing in Action. Star–Paladin Sarah Lyons, killed in action."

"Wait a sec-" said Kodiak.

"I'm sorry to report that all assigned T45d power-armour, recon armour, plasma rifles, laser rifles, plasma pistols, laser pistols, combat knives, food and medical supplies, and other relevant equipment has been lost save for my recon armour and Scribe Rothchild's robes."

She reached down under her bed and pulled out an exotic suitcase, handing it to the Elder. "Here's your G.E.C.K., Dad. Have a nice day."

This was followed by a deathly still silence. No one even dared blink. They were all too busy trying to absorb her report, and pondering her condition.

"How did they die?" Dusk asked.

"Painfully." Came the hoarse answer.

The suspenseful silence took on a mournful edge. Dusk rose angrily and stormed into a side-room. There was more silence, and then a crash. Glade followed and found her sitting against the wall, her helmet flung far away. A broken chair was lying in the middle of the room. It took Glade a moment to realize that there were tears on the woman's cheeks.

He slid down beside her, his gaze settling on the broken furniture. "It's funny, I always thought you hated Gallows." It was not funny, but she laughed anyway. She wiped her eyes roughly and sniffed.

"I did hate Gallows." She mumbled. "But Colvin…"

Glade nodded. Dusk and Colvin had always shared a rather complicated relationship. Two competing snipers, they had teased and harassed each other constantly, always maintaining that it was due to mutual dislike despite the fact that _everyone _knew better. It had been a matter of pride.

"Vargas is down…" She snarled. "And Sarah's FUBAR. Now Gallows and Colvin… It's just us, you know? You, me, and Kodiak."

"And the Wanderer."

"Yeah," she snapped sarcastically, "Because _he's_ around."

"Do you want the rest of the day?" Glade asked gently. Her expression told him all he needed to know. "Report to Project Purity. You'll be lifting pipes or whatever manual labor they need. Turn your sniper rifle in to them when you get there. I'd rather not have you handling weapons until you're more calm."

Dusk nodded. He followed her back into the main section of the Den where Sarah was still sitting with her father. Kodiak had moved to his own bunk and was staring sullenly at the ceiling. When Dusk opened the door, she found herself face-to-face with the Lone Wanderer. They stared at each other for a moment, and then he moved aside. She kept up a steady, venomous glare until her path forced her to turn her back.

Glade presented him with a rather friendlier greeting in the form of a somber nod, but the surprising reaction was Sarah's. Her eyes had suddenly grown focused and crystal clear. Her voice was strong and measured as she gazed at him.

Glade watched as they stared each other down. The tension in the room was rising fast. Sarah's eyes had narrowed, her mouth drawn into a cold, thin, angry line. Her sudden shift from cluttered confusion to focused anger had the spectators reeling. The Wanderer was watching her with a cautious expression, bordering on hostile.

Sarah slid off the bed and walked over to stand in front of him. She gave him a cursory examination. "You changed your face."

"Long story." He replied. "Probably not as long as yours."

Sarah nodded silently.

He softened. "I'm sorry, Sarah. If I'd known you were going to Point Lookout, I would have-"

"Shut up." Sarah snarled. Glade watched as she drew back her arm and let loose a single, furious punch. The Wanderer saw the vicious right hook coming. He could have blocked it. Dodged it. Simply taken a step back… but instead he stood there and took it, stumbling slightly as he absorbed the blow. Sarah stood back and rubbed her fist.

The Wanderer straightened, still wearing the cautious expression. He reached up and gently massaged the stricken area. He seemed more baffled than hurt.

"Whatever benefits the Capital Wasteland, at any cost to yourself or anyone outside the capital wasteland…" Sarah said, shaking her head, "Do you know how many lives your MO cost us, Jason?"

"You're blaming me?" He asked, his face unreadable. His voice had become monotone; devoid of all emotion.

"Don't you _dare_ go all 'Wanderer' on me, Jason!" She barked. "I'm talking to Jason Howlett! Don't you _dare _close up!"

Kodiak and Elder Lyons' attention oscillated back and forth between them. Neither of the spectators looked remotely comfortable with the situation. Glade himself was frowning. An argument was clearly going on, but to him it didn't feel like one.

The Wanderer sighed. "Why did you hit me?"

"Because you deserved it!" Sarah snapped as he rubbed his bruised chin, "Does everything have to be… look, maybe the world wouldn't be so horrible to you if you didn't treat everything in it like pieces in a giant game! Why does everything have to be a bargaining chip, Jason? Some things should just be left well enough alone! What else have you done that's waiting to bite us in the ass?"

"Nothing I can think of…"

"Where's the book, Jason?"

The Wanderer's confused expression deepened.

"The Book!" Sarah shouted, "Obadiah Blackhall's Book! Your fucking bargaining chip!"

His face fell. "So he had to-"

"Oh, he did!" Sarah giggled manically, "he _really _did! And Artemis paid for it! And Gallows paid for it! And Colvin, too. Did you put any thought into what taking that book away would do to that place?"

"Whoa, stop!" Glade interceded. Sarah glared at him, in sharp contrast to the Wanderer's grateful look. "What do you mean by 'paid for it', Sarah?"

She pointed an avenging finger at the Wanderer, "_He _took Blackhall's book when he visited and it was the only thing keeping Point lookout down. Now that it's gone, the place has gone to pieces and _we_ were left holding the bag!" she turned back to Wanderer. "Gallows is still alive, you know that? We had to leave him behind because of what you did! He's caught playing cat and mouse with a…a ghost…thing… Genius Loci."

"Sarah, you aren't making any sense." Her father said gently. "Take a moment and-"

"Shut up, dad!" she turned on him. "How could _you _send us into that with no intel, huh? _What the hell were you thinking_? Or did you just want me to get out of the Wasteland before Jason had a chance to bend me over a table? It was _hell_, dad. You sent me into _Hell_! _Do you have any idea how much I suffered there_?"

Kodiak immediately move to support his Elder. The old man looked as though he'd been slapped. "I'm sorry Sarah." He was suddenly mumbling. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry is not good enough!" she began.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" The Wanderer suddenly burst out, cowing her into silence. He turned to Kodiak first. "Get Elder Lyons out of here." The Paladin obeyed, supporting Sarah's frail father out of the room. He grabbed the G.E.C.K. as he went.

Only Glade, Sarah, and the Wanderer were left. She turned to him furiously. "You get the book, Jason Howlett! You go back to the wasteland and you get the book. You bring it to me, and let me do what I like with it! That was the deal I made with Blackhall." She laughed. "He followed through on his end of the bargain, and now I owe him a debt."

Jason sighed. "Sarah, your father-"

"Get. Out." She hissed, and Glade recognized a rapidly shrinking fuse when he saw it. He backed away a few steps, and hoped that the Wanderer had the same sense.

"But-"

"GET OUT!" She rushed forward and hit him again. "Get out!" she began punching every inch of him she could reach, hitting as hard as she possibly could. "Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out!" The Wanderer backed towards the door, blocking as many as he could, but the thud of her fists' impacts had become an omnipresent drone.

Glade rushed forward and grabbed at her arm as she drew it back. "Sarah, don't" but her hand wasn't where it was supposed to be. Before he realized what was going on, her fingers had closed on his laser pistol. She managed to get three wild shots off before he grappled it away from her. Two of them hit the Wanderer in the chest. In a flash, he had vanished, leaving only the smell of burnt flesh in the air. Glade wasn't entirely sure how, though. He was a little too preoccupied trying to hold down the struggling Star-Paladin, who was kicking at his power armour with unmatched ferocity. She brought her fist around, and his arm instinctively flew up to block. There was a crunch and she cried out as her knuckles broke on the hardened steel shell. Glade took advantage of the split-second the injury bought him. pulling his punch, he hit her in the stomach, making her double over. Then he picked her up by the front of her tattered recon armour and tossed her onto the nearest bed where she lay sobbing, clutching her broken hand.

"You're damned lucky that was the Lone Wanderer." He grunted, retrieving his pistol. "Anyone else'd have you court-martialed."

Sarah began to giggle wildly.

"I'm serious!" he continued. "Imagine if that had been me. Or your father…"

"It wouldn't matter." Sarah murmured, curled up in the fetal position. "None of it does. Not Jason, Not the G.E.C.K.. Not the purifier…All that matters is getting the book back before Ug-Qualtoth notices."

"You're not making any sense right now, Sarah." Glade told her in a softer tone. "I think you need some rest."

"Oh, no," she replied mournfully. "I'm making perfect sense. It's the world that doesn't make sense. There's no sense of scale… what are you supposed to do without a sense of scale, Glade?"

Paladin Glade sat on the bed beside her, keeping his weapons well out of her reach. He had a plan: he was going to wait until Kodiak got back, then they were going to take Sarah to the doctor and let him sort her out.

Dusk's words echoed in his mind: _It's just us, you know? You, me, and Kodiak…_

Everything was falling to pieces…

Presently, Sarah began humming a mind-bogglingly irritating song about Dear Hearts and Gentle people.

* * *

**I know what it says about the Disintegrator in the wiki. I changed it up a little bit to fit what was happening in-game. **

**Nadine's murder was vicious, but I did say that Sarah was going to have problems.**

**This is the second to last chapter. The next one will probably be the final one, then I'll post the FAQ. I will not be covering the re-arming of the Brotherhood in this fic aside from a detail or two. **

**As far as the FAQ goes, if you guys have any questions, you'll want to post them now in the reviews and I'll answer them.**

**But it's nearly over! yay! :D**


	26. Chapter 26

Aqua Vitae 26

"I did all I can." Phantom said, pulling Glade aside. "Physically, she's recovering. I've treated da burns, scratches and da gunshot wounds. She's got a couple'a scahs on her abdomen. I got no idea what da hell made those."

Glade glanced over the medic's shoulder. Sarah was sitting on a cot in the med-bay, staring into space. He said, "The physical stuff isn't the problem. She's not stable…mentally."

"Well den I can't help ya." The former raider waved his hand in dismissal.

"What did you do to radiers who had post-traumatic stress disorders?" Glade demanded, a little annoyed.

"Shot'em." Phantom answered. "Dey was dangerous." He added by way of explanation.

"So what can we do?"

"Nuthin." Phantom moved onto Vargas, changing his dressings and applying the necessary medicines. "Just give'er some time and some space. In a padded room with no sharp edges."

Glade sighed and moved to Sarah's bed. She had not moved a muscle since the medic had finished his ministrations. Her head and shoulder had some light bandages, and every open wound had been treated and covered. She was also wearing a new recon suit, the old one having been declared scrap, and given to the scribes to salvage for spare parts. If she had heard his hushed conversation with Phantom, she didn't show it.

"How are you feeling?" he asked gingerly.

"I'm not." She answered.

"You don't want to shut off like that." Glade warned, "There might be no going back."

"Fine by me."

"How are you ever going to go back to work when you're shooting your allies?"

"Maybe I don't want to." She said.

"So… what? You're just going to retire? How are you going to live?"

She stared at Phantom, who was finishing up his work on Vargas. "Maybe I don't want to do that either."

Glade sighed and followed her gaze. "No one is ready to lose you yet, Sarah Lyons." He said quietly. "Not your father. Not Rothchild. Not the Pride-"

"What's left of it." She laughed.

"Not me either." He said firmly. "No matter what you might think of it, your life is valuable, Sarah."

"Life as a human being is a meaningless coincidence, Glade. We live on a calm, naive little island of stupidity and ignorance, floating through the blackest depths of space. There are things out there that could destroy our entire world by snorting in their sleep. One day we'll open the blinds of reality and find out where we _really_ stand; how much we _really _mean. And we'll either go crazy, or shut them again and do our very best to forget. Our lives, and what matters down here in the Capital Wasteland is pointless in the grand scheme of things. Completely irrelevant. Just like you and me."

Glade whistled, trying to think of a response. He settled on: "Doesn't that mean that what little time we have is precious, and should be highly valued while it lasts?"

Got that off a pre-war greeting card, did you?" she asked dryly.

"I dunno." He shrugged. "Where did you get your thing from? That was pretty dark."

"Light and dark is irrelevant."

He made a frustrated noise and turned away for a second. She heard him mutter, "It's like talking to a brick wall."

"Tried that, did you?" she asked sweetly.

"Okay… so what _is _relevant?" Glade asked, ignoring the comment. "What _is_ important?"

"The only question is will that Book get back to Blackhall in time for him to stop Point Lookout from stepping on too many toes."

"Okay…" Glade said slowly, trying to understand, "If the book is the same one you sent the Wanderer away for, then who is Blackhall?"

"All that stands between us and annihilation." She intoned, "He brought me back from the dead."

"Yeah, about that," the Paladin began uncomfortably, "Dead is dead."

"It's not." Sarah giggled, shaking her head, "it's really not."

"Padded room." Phantom suggested, sifting through a pile of papers on his desk.

"I'm not crazy!" Sarah shot back angrily.

"Ya shot da Lone Wanderer. I'd call dat suicidal."

"What do you want, Sarah?" Glade asked, shutting their exchange down before she grew more unstable. "What can I do to help?"

"I want all of it to not have happened." She replied.

"I can't do that." Glade said hollowly. "Believe me, I wish I could."

* * *

Rothchild sat at his desk, his entire upper body bathed in a bright blue glow.

"A cure…" he said slowly.

"Yessir." Peabody nodded. "We've already tested small amounts on captured Supermutant blood samples, sir."

"What did it do?"

"Well the way the FEV drug changes its subjects is very similar to the way a regular virus attacks the sick, sir." Peabody explained. "Except our own white blood cells can't react to it the way they react to normal viruses." He gestured at the glowing blue vial on the table before them. "This does what the white cells are supposed to. It attacks all DNA sections FEV-damaged, and fixes them with a built-in human template based on information contained in the healthy cells. It's brilliant stuff, really. But a bit beyond us."

Rothchild shook his head. "Can you make more?"

"I might be able to, sir. But I'd have to take a fairly sizeable quantity. Say… at least thirty percent of what we have… maybe more."

"This is useless to us if it just sits in a vault." Rothchild replied. "I want to see what it does when injected into a live subject. Can it change a mutant back into a human?"

"I don't know. But isn't that kind of cruel, sir?"

"Mister Peabody, over the years I've watched too many good soldiers die to have any problems being cruel to a Supermutant." Rothchild said, "Start backwards-engineering more of the stuff, and start testing larger subjects. If the Wanderer is still here, find him and tell him to come talk to me. I want to know as much as he does about it."

"Due respect, sir, he knows as much as I told you." Peabody said. "Less, actually. I was at the briefing when he gave this to us. He just wants us to keep it safe."

"We'll do more than that." Rothchild replied. "Get it done, Mister Peabody.

The scribe scuttled out, carrying the Cure with him. Four minutes later, a knock came at the door. Rothchild looked up to see his closest friend, leaning arduously against the door frame.

"Hello."

"Reginald." Lyons collapsed in the nearest chair. "I'm so relieved to have you back my friend… Things have been difficult." He smiled sadly. "I had no idea just how many scientific explanations you were shielding me from..."

"I'm just as relieved to be back, I assure you." Rothchild replied. "Speaking about technology with someone who has had to technical is an art. I've found that you tended to only care about the end results. It was best to cut out the explanation."

Lyons nodded, watching him careful. "Sarah called it Hell."

"She's not wrong." Rothchild replied quietly. "Although she had it much worse than I did."

"What happened?"

"Quite a few things I'd rather not relate." Rothchild replied. "But I can tell you that Sarah has been through far more than anyone ever should have had to. Be patient, and hopefully she'll start recovering."

"She blames me, Reginald." Lyons said hollowly.

"She's not thinking straight, Owyn. Give her some time to decompress. She'll come around." Rothchild reassured him, deciding to neglect the fact that she'd been on the Duchess Gambit for four weeks and it hadn't done any good. Nadine's brutal murder played across his inner eye again and he winced.

"Perhaps your right…" Owyn said, though beneath his calm voice, Rothchild detected the tones of a man desperate for any scrap of consolation he could find.

"I know I am." He replied, amazed at how often, and how drastically, human beings were willing to lie to protect their friends.

* * *

Paladin Glade stood at attention in the citadel courtyard. The sun was just setting, bathing the interior of the citadel in a warm red glow. Cross was there also, along with Tristan and a few other knights. Down at the end of the line, Scribes Peabody and Bigsley were looking very smug. They had good reason; the entirety of the Brotherhood, initiates, knights, and scribes, were all gathered behind them in strict rows. Sarah Lyons was not among either group. Galde ahd arranged for Phantom to watch her.

Elder Lyons stood before the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood of Steel. Scribe Rothchild was at his shoulder, looking more grim than usual.

"My Brothers," he began, "You've worked very hard over the past few months, and I'm proud of each and every one of you." His gaze traveled across the attendant ranks. "The purifier is finally operational thanks to your efforts." This elicited a loud cheer from the crowd behind Glade. Lyons held up a hand to silence them, his face alight with enthusiasm. In a rare moment, Glade was given the opportunity to be reminded of what Owyn Lyons once was: a brave, capable soldier, a shrewd leader, and a paragon of the Brotherhood. Few soldiers carried that torch, that inner light with them. Fewer still were capable of displaying it at his age. It had been so long since Glade had seen it, he had nearly forgotten it was there.

"However the actions of a few brave soldiers stand out among the rest." Lyons moved forward, and the scribes and soldiers in Glade's line saluted.

"Paladin Glade," Lyons began, "For your years of faithful service and loyalty to the Brotherhood, culminating in your exemplary efforts during the Enclave war, and the Project Purity repairs, You have been promoted to Star-Paladin."

He moved on to Star-Paladin Cross and gave a similar speech, promoting her to Sentinel. As he did, Glade noticed the shadow flicker across the Elder's face. Glade knew exactly what was going through the man's mind: he was missing Sarah's presence. He had clearly been counting on her successful return, and the restoration of her former rank as a bonding moment that would bring the two of them back together. His disappointment was brief, but felt by everyone who knew what had actually become of Sarah Lyons. Sentinel Cross offered a brief, but reassuring hand, and Elder Lyons recovered, moving down the line.

He ended standing beside Rothchild. "I have a final promotion to present." He called to the crowd. "Back east, when I was young, Elders were promoted very rarely. It was a long process, filled with ceremony, and the rank itself was reserved exclusively for the Warrior caste." He stared out across the courtyard. "However we are short on time. There's celebrating to be done, after all!"

The crowd cheered again, making him smile. "So without further ado, it is my honor, and one of the greatest privileges of my life to call upon my oldest friend, Elder Reginald Rothchild. Congratulations."

Rothchild stepped forwards smartly, and offered a salute. The only one Glade had ever seen him give.

"Steel be with you." The prayer was echoed by all the voices, all around the courtyard. Glade felt the glow of pride and loyalty in his Chapter, and their extraordinary accomplishments.

* * *

Rothchild entered his private office after the ceremony. He walked over to his workbench and pulled out the optics for Liberty Prime. It was a rather pointless exercise, considering all else there was to do, but he found something cathartic about working on the robot. It was a hobby. A way to relax. A puzzle which would be solved eventually. All he had to do was find the right pieces and put them in order.

Elder Reginald Rothchild… the rank had been a distant desire. One he had possessed in his younger days. He had long since given up hope of ever achieving it. He hadn't earned it anyway, he knew. The _Men_ had earned it. They needed something to celebrate, considering all the setbacks they had encountered over the years. Having a second Elder would nearly make up for it. It wasn't progress, but it felt like it. Rothchild knew that the High-Elders back east would hardly approve of the promotion, but it didn't matter to him, and it wouldn't matter for the over-clocked Scribes serving under him, nor the equally exhausted knights with whom they collaborated.

"Mariposa." A voice intoned, making him jump. The Wanderer was sitting in a shadowy corner, waiting silently. Patiently.

"Mariposa?" Rothchild frowned. "I don't…" he surveyed the young man. Every day James' seemed to look a little more like the man in the motivational posters. His duster had two patches in it, where Sarah's shots had impacted. Rothchild had heard the story. It'd spread throughout the Citadel like wildfire, though no one had yet said anything to Owyn Lyons. Rothchild was not looking forward to the eventual moment when he'd have to break the news.

"You promised me a report." The Wanderer reminded him. "Before the purifier exploded."

"Ah, yes." Rothchild nodded. The report, as innocuous as it had seemed at the time, had slipped his mind completely in the intervening months. He walked over to his desk and pulled out a thin sheaf of papers, handing them to the Wanderer.

"Thank you." Came the aloof reply.

"Give Sarah a little more time." Rothchild said as the young man made to leave. "I know you plan to visit her again. Just give her a few more hours."

The Wanderer nodded and left without a word.

* * *

Glade awoke in the middle of the night to hear a horrific scream. He stared at the cracked ceiling for a moment, wondering if he'd merely imagined it, but it came again; a piercing wail signaling a woman caught in the throes of the most dire distress.

He sat up, searching for the source. Kodiak had also woken up. Glade momentarily searched for Colvin and Gallows, then he remembered. And Dusk was staying at project Purity. Vargas spent his nights in the med-bay…

Sarah screamed again, eyes tightly shut, as if attempting to ward away some hideous vision.

Kodiak looked to him uncertainly. Sounds of confusion and anger were flaring up all throughout A-ring; the celebrations had been thorough, and surprisingly brief. But no one felt like being woken up. Glade rose quickly and crossed the length of the barracks to wake her up before she caused more trouble. He paused for a moment to close and lock the door, then he turned to her bunk.

Sarah's skin was clammy and pale, her hair soaked in sweat. He gingerly reached out and tapped her combat boots. Her eyes flew open and for just one moment, a fraction of a second, Glade saw deepest pain and terror of a sort he himself, having been through countless campaigns, could scarce imagine. Salty ocean air filled his nostrils, and he could hear the distant death toll of buoy bells. All just for an instant.

Sarah rubbed her eyes and stared at him with an expression of great distress.

"Are you alright?" the Paladin asked, trying to wipe the sound of ocean waves from his mind.

"I'm sorry I woke you." She said. "Blackhall said it would be loud, but I wasn't…" she shook her head and lay back on her bunk.

"What were you dreaming about?" Kodiak asked, "it sounded like a nightmare."

"I can't remember…" she whispered.

The door slammed open, surprising Glade, who had locked it securely. The Lone Wanderer was standing grimly on the other side, holding a battered old book in his hands. It looked to be far older than any other volume Glade had ever seen, and suggested a certain malignancy which set his teeth on edge.

The Wanderer slipped a bobby pin back into his pocket and stepped inside, shutting the door on a crowd of curious onlookers.

He and Sarah stared at each other, his messy blond hair and red bandana lending his sharp features ominous shadows. It was the closest Glade had ever seen him come to resembling Three-Dog's motivational posters. Yet unlike the posters, which were relatively friendly, hopeful depictions, the real Wanderer bespoke primal, hard-edged danger, and unpredictability. Glade suddenly wished to be a long way away. He noted that the two burnt holes in the Wanderer's duster had been haphazardly patched with Brahmin skin.

The Wanderer held up his book. Sarah's gazed was locked on it, a pensive expression on her face. He tossed it onto her bed and turned to leave. Glade reached out and caught him on the shoulder. "Can I have a moment?"

He lead the Wanderer into the side-room. "Look, she's not well."

The Wanderer glanced down at the patched holes in his duster, and looked back up, raising an eyebrow.

"Phantom can't help her." Glade said. "I can't help her. Her dad can't help her, and while she's down, so is he." He sighed. He did not like doing this, but some things couldn't be ignored. "The fact is that we need her well, or we need her away from our recruits, and our armory. She shot you, and not everyone can just shrug it off like you did. Is there anything you can do, or anywhere you can go, to help her get better?"

The Wanderer's steady gaze surveyed him for a few moments longer, taking in the new Star-Paladin markings on his armour. Then he nodded. Glade sighed in relief.

"You realize, if I do this, then I won't be there to help you bring the weapons back."

"We can handle it." Glade said. "Unless there's something you haven't told us…"

The Wanderer searched the drawers until he located a pencil and paper. He wrote a short note on it, folded it up, and handed it to him. "Use Vertibirds. When you get there, be the first to touch the beacon. Give this to the soldier in the white combat armour. He runs things up there. Give yourself some time to absorb it, then let everyone else on board in groups of two or three. Be careful; the ship has not been completely purged of enemies. But it's armory is full."

"Ship? What ship?"

"Zeta." The Wanderer said. "The Alien Space Ship. Mothership Zeta. Try not to let Rothchild drool on it. He'll ruin the paint job."

Glade watched in stunned silence as the Wanderer proceeded back into the sleeping area, where Sarah was still sitting on her bed. She had the book on her knees, and was staring down at the cover as if afraid it might explode. As the Wanderer marched towards her, he spoke in a gruff voice, "Follow."

The woman slid off the bed and was sucked into his wake as he passed.

"Where are _they_ going?" Kodiak asked.

"I have no idea." Glade replied distantly, "But I hope it helps." He opened the scrap of paper and read the message, which turned out to be exceedingly anti-climactic:

_Elliot, these are allies. Trust them. Show them to the armory._

_-Jason Howlett_

* * *

Sarah knelt at the river's edge. She weighed the Krivbeknih in her hands, and then laid it down ceremoniously in the water. It floated, which was strange. Stranger still was the way the current seemed to grow stronger as the book broke the surface of the water. It didn't appear to get wet at all, and sat freely upon the surface, bucking as each wave lapped at the shore. She let it go, and they watched the decrepit Grimoire float away, carried by the river's calm currents. A long time passed in silence as they listened to the water bubbling over the pebbled beach.

"I'm sorry I shot you." She said.

He snickered. "That's the first time anyone's ever apologized for shooting me. It healed up well enough. But you're paying for the repairs to my duster."

She laughed. "Right."

Eventually Jason said, "You know, there's a place I go when I've had enough."

"You?" Sarah scoffed, "Enough?"

"I mean it!" he replied passionately. "Sometimes even I get tired and worn out by everything. There's a place I go to calm down and get…readjusted. Reoriented."

"Glade asked you to do this?"

"I was planning on it anyway."

"And?"

"I'd like to take you there." he said. "I can't pretend to know what happened to you, but I know it was painful. Maybe a vacation would help."

Sarah stared at his earnest face.

"I know you've been through more than me." Jason told her. "But I'm the only one who gets it. I know what it's like to have seen more than everyone else. When I went back down into Vault 101, their own squabble was so damned important to them. Yet it seemed pointless and stupid from my perspective with all I'd seen of the world. They were isolated. Ignorant to the point of stupid, even the side that wanted to open the vault. They had no idea what the larger picture was."

"That's exactly what all this looks like to me." Sarah gestured backwards at the bulky Citadel gate. "I feel like I don't have any stake in it anymore."

"I know. Come north with me, Sarah. Come see what I've seen. And I'll show you why it all still matters."

He offered his hand. Sarah took it.

As they left, a shadow, lingering in the pre-dawn light, shimmered like a mirage, and disappeared…

* * *

The Mysterious Stranger stood on the opposite shore, watching the citadel gates. He heard a faint electrical noise as his enormous, armoured companion pulled off a stealth boy.

"Report?"

"The Lone Wanderer is not going to accompany them northward. He's gone with Sarah Lyons. Stupid move."

The Stranger sighed in agreement. "And Brutus?"

"Takoma Industrial. He's starting to amass his forces."

"Timeframe?"

"Three weeks." The gravelly, filtered voice reported, "Maybe less. What's the plan, boss? Are we outta here?"

"We beat the Brotherhood to the Beacon, and see that they aren't disturbed. That'll give them a fighting chance."

"Why bother? There's nothing here, right?"

"Yes…" the stranger said slowly, "I was wrong on that score. The Good Doctor is moving. A friend of mine did some digging of his own back east. Turns out Brutus succeeded where his master failed."

"The FEV II virus…"

The Stranger nodded. "He didn't get that information from nowhere."

"So they _did _meet? What was traded in return?"

"To risk the return of the mutant threat? Something Important. We have to question Brutus, then put him down. We can't do that while he's at the center of a supermutant army. The wasteland has to survive. We need Mister Howlett on our side."

"North it is, then." The warrior intoned.

"North." The Stranger agreed.

* * *

Commander Jackrum stared out at the sea of faces. The entirety of the Talon Company was gathered in the courtyard before him. He gripped the railing of his platform and called out: "There's been a slight change in management. Jabsco's dead. I'm in charge. Anyone who has a problem with this, step forward."

He was pleased to see that almost all the mercs stayed put. The grizzled veterans, the ones with tanned faces, unshaved beards, and too many scars, stayed put. The ten-year men, the fifteen-year men. This wasn't the first time they'd seen a changeover, and it likely wouldn't be the last. Every single one of them owed their lives to Jackrum personally, and he knew they operated according to his code. He'd mentored all of them. They'd help him. They'd be loyal, simply to repay their debts.

The greenhorns stayed put too. He knew why: They were watching the Veterans. They hadn't been around long enough to develop any attachment to Jabsco, but they _had_ grown used to following the Veterans' leads both in and out of battle. Those who hadn't weren't around. They'd stay loyal because the veterans were loyal.

The problem area was the middle-men. Those that were left after the slaughter in the scrapyard. Eleven mercs emerged from the crowd. Jackrum recognized their type. They were the B-Grade middlemen. The sort with big dreams and petty grudges. Jabsco had thrived on them. They were easy to manipulate and fiercely loyal to the first man who told them they could go places if they only followed his instructions.

Jackrum never promised his recruits anything other than survival. Nine times out of ten, he delivered on his promise. Jabsco promised power and riches, but continually failed to deliver. Those loyal to him were the trouble-makers. They were the vindictive. The petty. The sort who would kill their own comrades to increase their share of the loot.

It was time to clean house. Jackrum waved his hand at them and said, "You're all going after the Lone Wanderer. Thirty-thousand caps to the man who can bring me his head." He added quietly, "…In a fair fight."

Four of the eleven were smart enough to step back into the crowd. The other seven remained defiant, glaring up at him. He waved his hand at them. "Off you go…"

Knowing they'd get no support from the rest of the silent crowd, the seven mercs marched away into the wasteland. Jason could handle it; they would never be seen again. Jackrum noticed in the background that a young recruit, eyes alight with the idea of payment, tried to step forward and follow them. He was yanked back by the Veteran behind him, who leaned in and whispered in his ear. After he was done the recruit stayed put.

Jackrum watched the small group disappear into the heat of the wastes, then he turned back to the waiting crowd. He fished around behind his breastplate and pulled out a cigarette.

"There's a storm coming to the Capital Wasteland, boys." He said, "The Supermutants, the Brotherhood…it's all coming to a head." He struck a match on his own unshaved cheek. "Jabsco promised you power. Jabsco promised you riches…Me?" he lit his cigarette. The end sizzled as he took a long, deep drag, enjoying every moment of it. "I can promise you survival. Nothing more, and nothing less."

* * *

***Whew* why do I feel like I've just run a marathon? There's nothing so uniquely satisfying as finishing a novel this long. If I've missed anything, let me know. It's a lot of threads to juggle.**

**The thread with the Mysterious Stranger is going to be important later on, be for now, feel free to ignore it if you wish.**

**Sarah's emo little speech to Glade was actually the heavily edited first paragraph of Lovecraft's **_**The Call of Cthulhu**_**. I'm afraid I'm not doing it justice, and I apologize for that, but it's too late to back out of the whole "I'm referencing Lovecraft" thing. The actual quote is:**

_"**The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.****"**_

**Epic, huh? He does it WAAAAY better.**

**I'm not going to include the Brotherhood's upgrading in this story. They'll have finished by the time Mutatis Mutandis starts**

**Ask some questions and I'll post the FAQ tomorrow. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go cry into my pillow because it's Valentine's day and I have no special gal, and nothing better to do than play videogames and write fanfiction…**

**Hmm… It just occurred to me that those might be linked somehow...**

**Anyway thanks for reading, everybody. To everyone who's stuck through this series from Modus Operandi, you guys are amazing. To all the new readers, welcome into the fold. I hope you'll be sticking with us for quite a while longer. This story ain't done yet ;)**

**That's a wrap. Now for Mutatis Mutandis (with a short intermission).**


	27. Aqua Vitae FAQ

Aqua Vitae FAQ

Alright, I'm going to be adding these to the end of every fallout story. At least all the big ones. I find it helps me to think, and of course it answers questions I've been asked through the course of the story.

**What did you do to Point Lookout? It wasn't like that in-game!**

The Point Lookout DLC is my favorite of the bunch. I'd take it over Broken Steel if I had to. Whenever I played it, I always felt that something much bigger was going on in the background. That place was FUBAR. No location could be that desolate, that depressing, and that…_evil_, without there being some driving force behind it all. I simply took what was there, and followed it through to what seemed like a logical conclusion.

Every time the Duchess Gambit pulls up at the dock, I get a giant proverbial stiffy. So I had to write about it. Point Lookout, I mean. :/

Anyway main source of inspiration was H.P. Lovecraft (my favorite Horror author).

For the descriptions of the swamp itself, I also took elements from Tolkien's descriptions of The Dead Marshes.

**That entire Point Lookout sequence was extremely overwritten. Put down the thesaurus.**

It was also paying homage to Lovecraft. Be thankful I wasn't describing the exact dimensions of every single location and enemy in feet and inches. Ever read _At the Mountains of Madness_? Because he does that. A lot.

As for the thesaurus, writing is like carpentry in that you have to have the right tools for the job. If you don't, there's no reason not to go out and find the right tool. A thesaurus, when used properly, can help you find exactly the right word. I was not just trying to expand my toolbox, but also to imitate and pay homage to the very best in horror fiction. I may not have succeeded, but if you're reading my use of long words as some attempt to make myself seem artificially smarter, or a better writer than I am, you're reading (haha) it wrong.

"**It's sad that the great Fallout universe don't have any fics that could do it some justice. Instead it gets trash like this. Sad."**

This doesn't really belong in the FAQ section, but I have nowhere else to post it.

If you don't like my writing, or feel in any way disappointed, please at least act like the Anon who tore apart chapter 20, and explain why. It might actually help. Otherwise, don't bother posting. Believe it or not, we're all on the same team here: people who like Fallout enough to write/read its fanfiction. There's bound to be those of you who don't like this story. And that's just fine. But if you're going to criticize, please keep it constructive. I'm not going to say any more on the subject.

**How did the timing work between the two story threads?**

Seeing as it takes two months to travel to and from Point Lookout, pacing the storylines was difficult. Sarah's is several days long, Jason's is several months. In actuality Sarah's hellish experiences end at around the time that Jason meets Jackrum in the Muddy Rudder bar. She is boarding the ship the morning that Jackrum has lined up the recruits on Rivet City's drawbridge in chapter 9.

I know this isn't expressed very clearly, but for almost all of Jason's story, Sarah is on her way back to the capital wasteland. She arrives at Point Lookout around when Jason was being confronted by the Regulators in Chapter 6. I stretched her storyline out so that the climaxes would line up and various other little scenes would tie together, but the timing is different.

**Will we be seeing Point Lookout again?**

Probably not. I think I did all I can and all I wanted to with it.

**Is Gallows dead? Will we be seeing him again?**

…_I love those dear hearts, and gentle people…_

**What did you do to Sarah? She wasn't like that in-game.**

I've addressed this before, but I'll do it again. Sarah Lyons has many different interpretations. Personally I prefer to tone down the soldier side. That way through her I get to ask questions and examine things about the Fallout world. It's nothing personal and I have no intention of character defamation. She is my own eyes and ears, and because of that, some of my own personality gets imprinted on her, unfortunately. ( I may have just insulted myself…)

On top of that, one rule I started out with was that NOONE can handle Point Lookout. Not the way I've done it up. It breaks everybody! (except Gallows because he's just that awesome) Even Jason is supposed to be "Superman" and it's implied that even he only just managed to escape it with his life, and at that point, it hadn't even gone ape-shit yet. In the dinner scene at the beginning of the novel, he's still shown to be scared by the memories of it.

Sarah and the expedition are outgunned and being hunted like rats. She's only human. Point Lookout isn't. Sooner or later, it breaks everybody. And given what she goes through there; seeing her entire squad get slaughtered, the fucked-up punga plant, the swampfolk, seeing all the Brotherhood rules break down until it's basically every man for himself...

**You certainly seem to like beating her up. Like… a lot…**

Her section was primarily a horror novel. And a Lovecraft shout-out. The human vulnerabilities; physical, spiritual, and emotional, are what the entire horror genre thrives on. If she were invincible, this book wouldn't work. If she could simply bounce back from everything, this book wouldn't work. She is Point lookout's chew toy, and she needed to break. Otherwise Point Lookout wouldn't be scary.

**Do you dislike the Brotherhood?**

For this one I'm actually going to pull a quote from another reader named dyslecksec, which he posted at the end of Modus Operandi. He summed up my feelings on the Brotherhood perfectly…

"In Fallout 2 in particular I looked up to [The Brotherhood] and eagerly joined them once I could. But in that game, and in Fallout 3 as well, I came to realize you leave them behind. You go places and do things they simply can't handle. It's not a matter of knocking them, or belittling them, it's just a matter of out-growing them."

My version of the Brotherhood is based simply on what I saw in-game. What I saw was an organization with extremely thinned ranks. I saw bodies lying everywhere. Especially in the mall and at Galaxy News. I saw beleaguered little stranded groups which grew fewer in number every time I visited them, but no patrols or reinforcements. I saw no attempts to correct the smaller problems of the wasteland. I never saw a BH attack on a mutant outpost or raiders or anything like that.

Add to that Artemis' soliloquy, Lyons' logs, and other bits of information. One really does get the impression that they aren't nearly as well-off as they pretend to be. I very much doubt a single (regular) knight could make it from Girdershade to the Republic of Dave. They simply aren't well-enough equipped.

The Lone Wanderer, at the point when these stories take place, is THE most powerful thing in the capital wasteland. He/she can do far more than any other group. The way Jason Howlett treats the Brotherhood is exactly the way he sees every other set of friendly humans in the capital wasteland: people who need help to tie their own shoes, which speaks as much to his own character flaws than it does to their actual abilities. Yet given all he's done (i.e. all the in-game quests), it's a justifiable opinion, which I find interesting as a character issue.

I don't hate the Brotherhood, but they're only human. And in order to keep up with a Lone Wanderer, that's not good enough. This is his story, not theirs.

**Your Wanderer is over-powered**

Yes he is. Intentionally. By the end of any Fallout game I've played, the main character is no longer human. He/she has been upgraded with perks and machinery and mutations to the point where they can do far more and take far more than any other character in the game. Remember the end of Broken Steel? Your Wanderer single-handedly took down the land crawler, and ALL enclave personnel therein. Only the Lone Wanderer could accomplish that. No one and nothing else in the wasteland could.

He is over-powered in-game. And I generally try to put what's in-game into the story.

**What is Jason's character build?**

I don't like doing this, but it's been requested a few times, and I do have a "Jason Howlett" research character. I don't really work off stats and numbers, I work off gameplay. Quite a bit is lost, and quite a bit more is gained from his transferring from game to written story. A few different people have requested the character build, in one case so they could try playing as him, which I found to be a great compliment. These are not Jason's stats, but they're the closest I have.

His face:

http:/ img528. imageshack. us/

(tell me if the link doesn't work. You have to delete the spaces.)

His S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:

Strength-7

Perception- 10(+)

Endurance- 9

Charisma- 6

Intelligence- 8

Agility- 8

Luck- 6

His Stats:

Barter- 39

Big Guns-70

Energy Weapons-74

Explosives-74

Lock-pick-100

Medicine-90

Meelee-Weapons-75

Repair-100

Science-100

Small Guns-100

Sneak-100

Speech-100

Unarmed-50

I'm not going to list all his perks unless you REALLY want to know. It's extremely time-consuming, and I'd rather spend it writing.

**Who was this 'Fletcher' guy?**

I was surprised by how much this one popped up. I'm going to have to take a very careful look at the first few chapters of Aqua Vitae. Jason Howlett IS Fletcher. It's his undercover name. he joined the Talon company in the hopes of finding out who master-minded the sabotage.

It doesn't especially matter anyway. This story has two protagonists. Their names are Sarah Lyons and Jonathon "Jackrum" Rumsfeld.

Gallows gets a special mention.

**Who is Jackrum? Where did he come from?**

Jackrum is a Talon Company mercenary. The name, and basic character template came from Terry Pratchett's Discworld series. Sam Vimes and Sergeant Jackrum, in particular. ( Look up there, it's Captain Obvious!)

He was a way for me to explore the Talon Company, who weren't explained or explored at all in-game. They ended up being bullet fodder for the LW. Besides, I like the idea of a simple, honorable man who's doing the best he can at a job which isn't all that honorable.  
I think the trick to writing good OC's is to write them so that they were there all along, and the player character just never met them until the story takes place. That means setting up the little details, like his friend Joey in Rivet City security, or his ongoing battle with Tammy Hargrave. And don't make them or their actions seem all that important or out of place. I tried to make it feel like Jackrum did not come out of nowhere. He was simply another nameless mercenary until he got singled out.

I was in the Royal Canadian Sea Cadets for quite a while. All the group dynamics, the "bro codes" and the ideas about what was honorable behavior for a squad leader came from that. He is based on the best traits from my Petty Officers, and my own experiences as a Petty Officer and a Leading Cadet, mentoring the New Entries, and watching them grow. I simply applied those collected experiences and gave them a character.

He was actually supposed to die at the end of the book, but he turned out to be a favorite character of mine. Possibly my best creation as a writer. I had waaaaay too much fun writing him, and I'm pondering doing a separate miniseries on him. Tell me if you'd approve.

**Will we be seeing more of him?**

Yes. He'll have a large part to play in the sequel, and probably in any other post- Aqua Vitae fic regarding the Capital Wasteland.

**Did you say Sequel?**

Yep. _Mutatis Mutandis_ is coming. Not for a little while. I want to work on some other things including my Saboteur novelization, and Disclosure, both of which got severely neglected. I poured all I had into Modus Operandi… and then I did Aqua Vitae. I gotta recharge. But keep a weather eye out. If you want, add me to your Author Alert so you can catch the first chapter when it comes.

**Is Amata going to appear in it?**

Yes.

**Are we going to see the Courier any time soon?**

After Mutatis Mutandis comes the Cross-over. She'll be there. If you're itching in the meantime, there's always Pro Posterus to keep you company. (shameless plug)

I'll add more answers as people ask more questions.

* * *

_**Recommendations:**_

**I ran across an extremely talented writer (*certainly* better than me) by the name of Six String Bard. Go check him out. I'm pretty sure he's writing THE definitive Fallout 3 novelization. **

**Also, if you like Point Lookout, there are two novelizations out there. One by Death's Whisper, and the other by Fenrir666. Both of them are called "Point Lookout" Check them out if you're interested. Fenrir's in particular has the most over-the-top sadistically evil Lone Wanderer I've ever read. His Wanderer makes the swampfolk look good in comparison.**

* * *

**I'd like to thank Krow Blood. He co-authored this and gets half the credit. It wouldn't have been done without him. He's responsible for all the best plot ideas, and keeps me on the straight and narrow. He decided that he got bored being the completely silent partner, so here's a message from him to you:**

"Good news everyone! I decided that being a "Silent" partner was kind of boring, so at least this once, I'll write a li'l note for you guys and gals and everything in between.

My handle is Krow blood. You won't find any stories on my profile, for I have written nothing. I've got...Issues...with writing. I've got a Fuckton ideas (Just ask CC), but no way to properly put them in any creative medium. Except Minecraft.

I tend to help CC with various Ideas, some character development, concept tennis (You know, hurling someone a concept, then he modifies it a hurls it back, then I Re-modify it and so forth until we get a wonderful idea), new plot-points, hell, even a new original story we are thinking up. I also am the source of most info on fallout 1, 2, VB and new vegas on this team. I'm kind of a nerd. Most of what Mr. House says in Pro Posterus comes from my many idle thoughts about keeping a post-apocalyptic city running and even growing.

I may be crazy, the shrinks haven't gotten around to answering me yet.

I'll be watching all of your reviews Mwaaahahhahahaha"

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. My apologies for taking so damned long. I didn't plan for it to take more than a month. Two at most. A little optimistic on my part… But I'm happy with the result, and I hope you're looking forward to the sequel as much as I am. Thank you for all of your reviews and support. Hopefully we'll have plenty more good times to come.**

**Anyway, keep on chooglin'.**

**CC out.**


End file.
